


being him is who you are

by TheLucindaC



Category: El Laberinto del Fauno | Pan's Labyrinth (2006), The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don We Now Our Gay Apparel, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fake Character Death, Gen, I'll find a way to get a David Bowie reference in here somehow, M/M, Memory Loss, Meta, Mutual Pining, Not a Crossover, Original Character(s), Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Depression, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Weird Plot Shit, except terrible things have to happen first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-03-29 15:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 97,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLucindaC/pseuds/TheLucindaC
Summary: A Pan's Labyrinth/Magicians AU. Of sorts. Maybe it's not actually an AU."A long time ago, there lived a moderately socially-maladjusted king of Fillory who dreamed of other worlds. One day, he walked through a doorway and lost his memory. He forgot who he was and where he came from. His body and mind had suffered from so much pain, and the doorway had falsely promised to take him where he was supposed to go next. His friends, among them King Eliot the Spectacular, Queen Alice the Wise, High King Margo the Destroyer, and Julia the God-touched, found a way to return the young king to where he truly belonged. But first, he needed to prove he hadn't become someone else while trapped beyond the door."---The Binder***this fic is NOT on hiatus, chapters are posted on a (roughly) monthly basis





	1. The Stone Slab

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Some quick things to know:
> 
> First, you don't have to be familiar with Pan's Labyrinth. I'm following the plot of the movie pretty closely, but there are going to be some obvious differences. Second, the work is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and please feel free to let me know about them. The tags of the work will change as more chapters get uploaded. It gets a little exposition heavy at the beginning (you know how world-building goes), but some things I try to leave unexplored/unexplained since they'll come in later. Third, there will be underlying references to stuff that happens throughout all seasons of The Magicians TV show, so although this is an AU (for now?) be wary of potential spoilers. Consider this post-season 4, but pre-Dark King. Also I borrow some stuff from The Magicians books, since there were parallels that I liked and certain things that I needed that the TV show didn't end up using or providing. However, nothing that'd be considered spoilery from the books has happened as I've been writing.
> 
> With that out of the way, please enjoy and PLEASE comment if you're so inspired.

The car’d gone silent an hour ago, except for the radio. The noise had become more static than music after they’d left the last town. The driver seemed to think this was better than nothing.

The car continued along the road, one of a trail of vehicles making their way through the dense forest. Shiny, anachronistic toys, all of them, trundling along at barely fifteen miles per hour, like ants who’d scented a bird carcass. The road was only wide enough for one car at a time, and unbelievably bumpy.  Tall trucks, full of luggage, food, and munitions, were scattered throughout the line every once in a while, like beetles who’d decided to follow the ants on their way, belching diesel fumes and souring the air.

Quentin wondered if he could get away with opening one of the books on his lap. All of his other belongings, which fit into one suitcase, were in the trunk alongside his mother’s. She was squished into the seat beside him. One hand held a kerchief over her mouth and the other rubbed her belly to sooth his kicking baby brother-or-sister.

Did she miss home more than he did? She hadn’t stopped looking out the window all day, but she hadn’t looked back once, either. They’d never traveled this far in their entire lives. And, if he was being honest, there was no knowing if they’d ever go back to the city either.

His mother moaned, and pressed the kerchief closer.

“Hey, sh sh shhhhh,” Julia soothed from the other side of the seat. Her long brown hair fell into her eyes as she rubbed his mother’s back. As she pushed it out of her face, she gave Quentin a reassuring look. “Your brother’s definitely awake.”

He grimaced in reply, wanting to smile but not sure how far to take it. His own fringe fell over his cheeks, and he pressed his fingers into _The World in the Walls_ , as if he could get the words out of them by contact alone.

“It’s alright,” his mother said, gritting her teeth. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Quentin felt a pang in his gut. He should have been saying that to her, not the other way around. The best he could think of was to put one of his hands over the one on her belly, and squeeze. The other stayed on his books.

The baby’s kicking slowed, and his mother breathed deeply. “Well, at least we know he’s strong.”

“Just like his mom,” Julia smiled.

Quentin nodded, but failed to meet their eyes. Glancing out the window, the massive trunks of the forest seemed to loom like watchmen as they passed.

“How much further?” Julia called to the driver.

A flash of sunlight glared off of the buttons adorning the man’s military jacket. “I shouldn’t think too long,” the driver answered, turning the radio down so that it buzzed like a beehive instead of its former roar of white noise. “It’s just the road; going too fast on it wouldn’t be too smart with all these curves. Don’t want to risk the safety of the captain's wife, do we, Mrs. Corrigan?” He glanced in the mirror at Quentin’s mother and smiled politely.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with humble nod.

Withdrawing his hand, Quentin dropped his eyes from the trees and finally gave in. He pried _The Flying Forest_ out from the stack, flipping it open to the first chapter. The raging anxiety in his chest dialed down as soon as his eyes fell on the familiar sentences.

“Quentin,” Julia murmured. “Fairy tales? Aren’t we getting a little old for those?”

He forced out a snort but didn’t look up. If it weren’t for the lightness in her voice, he would’ve thought she was actually scolding him. She’d watched him bring the books into the car in the first place, though. Even said the same thing to him when he’d climbed in. If she was really concerned, she’d’ve said something more, right?

“He’ll need something to teach those children when – ” his mother began, but another groan escaped her, and she doubled over.

“Jane?” Julia asked.

“Stop the car, please.”

The driver glanced back in the mirror. “Mrs. Corrigan?”

“Stop the - ”

His mother covered her mouth before anything else could come out.

The driver tapped his brakes and honked the horn, trying to signal the rest of the entourage. Jane grabbed the handle by Julia’s door before they’d stopped completely. Julia leapt off of the seat to let her pass, and the pregnant woman barreled out of the car to the side of the road. She heaved into a blanket of ferns. Julia rushed to her side, Quentin following right behind.

The trail of cars finished coming to a halt. Several of the drivers and passengers, all in their best soldiering gear, peaked their heads out of various windows.

Their own driver had parked their car and gotten out too, approaching slowly and glancing at the rest of the men behind him in embarrassment.

“Can we get some water, please?” Julia called to him.

The driver nodded, grateful for something to do to help. “Water! For the captain’s wife!” he shouted at one of the supply trucks. All of the men around it scrambled into action.

Quentin rubbed his mother’s back, biting his lip. She gripped his arm, asking him to give her some space as her curly red hair fell out of its bun. He stepped back, trying not to focus on the fact that Julia wasn’t asked the same question.

The sun came out from behind the clouds, radiating down through the canopy above their heads. Quentin tried to calm his breathing, but the air was stagnant and heavy. He ended up taking gulps of it too quickly. His coat scratched his arms, and his tie constricted around his throat. Chest burning, he bit his lip and illogically tried to send thoughts to his new sibling. Things like: how he knew how scary all this shit was, but that they needed to take it easy, for all their sakes. How the baby could be any kind of person they wanted to be, no matter how often others kept insisting the baby was a boy. How there would be plenty of times and ways to escape all the hard stuff out here, but it was better to wait right now. Wait for the right time. Wait for the right way.

Retreating another step back, wondering what else he'd tell the baby if he could, his heel jostled a large stone on the ground. It was about the size of his palm, weathered and misshapen. And there was some kind of outline carved onto it. He picked it up. A stone eye stared back at him, the deep grooves of the pupil and iris grazing the tips of his fingers as he ran them over the edges. There was an ancient, grainy texture to it, like hadn't quite come out of the earth but it definitely wasn’t man-made either.

Quentin knew they were heading to some remote lodge Captain Corrigan had seized for the war effort. The place had probably once belonged to some rich aristocrat who’d vacationed there during his summers. Maybe the land, before it was the aristocrat’s, used to belong to some old tribe, and that’s where the stone had come from.

Now, though, the area was to house the entire garrison under the captain’s command as a base. He was hunting down the last of the Hedges, a rebel guerilla army that refused to bend to the Order’s will. He'd had gone ahead of them two weeks ago, sending Julia to their barely-standing apartment in the city with fresh rations in one arm and new clothes for his wife in the other.

Julia’d cordially introduced herself on the Coldwater’s doorstep, saying the captain had instructed her to be a caretaker for his mother, to help ease the stress of the baby on the way and the long trip from the city to the country. Julia was already employed as the head of the lodge’s staff, so "it was fitting that she guide the captain’s wife in the upkeep of the house too." She would help them pack and run errands. Jane had taken to her immediately the second Quentin brought her into the house.

Julia had also become fast friends with Quentin despite his…well, everything. She’d noticed the Fillory books on his shelves, and launched into a debate with him about the rabbit pirates in _The Wandering Dune_ on her second day. She said they weren’t tonally consistent with the rest of the books. He disagreed. They only stopped trading theories back and forth when it was time to sit down to dinner that night.

They’d chatted about other things too in the days before their departure: places they’d visited, school subjects they loved, and careers they’d wanted to have when they were children, before the war blew that all to shit. He was one of the few men in the city that hadn’t been drafted into the war, but unlike any of the other young women Quentin had met, Julia never seemed to question that. Eventually, she did ask about it, but not in a way suggesting she was ready to judge him no matter what his answer was.

He was “unfit” to fight, he'd explained, so he’d found a job as a teacher. (Whether he was actually paid by the Order for his work was constantly up in the air. More than a few times, the classrooms he was supposed to teach in weren’t standing after the city survived its weekly bombardments.) Some of the kids he taught were outright orphans. Others had at least one family member ‘missing.’ But he knew all of them would need some kind of education to find their place in the world, once the Order stamped out the rebels. That’s why he’d go wherever they needed him.

Some of the kids barely spoke when he began his lessons. He’d privately started calling the children his “Shades,” after seeing so many of them drift off into the city when lessons ended at night. Plover’s books, though, often turned out to be the best way to connect with them. Sometimes it was just reading chapters aloud. Other times, he'd used certain passages as examples in math, social studies, or whatever subject he could manage to get the resources to teach. It didn’t hurt that he loved them just as much as the Shades did, once they knew the stories. The kids would follow him around town sometimes, whenever he ventured out to get a few meager groceries or teaching supplies. They’d ask what would Rupert do, if he was in their war? What would Quentin do with a Questing Beast if he caught one? How did he think the mosaic got solved?

Being a teacher was one of the reason’s he’d actually been allowed to come along with his mother. Captain Corrigan had come into his mother’s life…somehow. Probably stationed in the city to keep the rebel cause from finding a foothold. Quentin tried not to think about it too hard. His true father was KIA during the first year the fighting broke out, and they were left to fend (well, starve) for themselves as the city was destroyed around them. Before he’d really had a mind to ask how his mother and the captain had met, she was already pregnant and married. When the captain insisted his new wife join him in his hunt for the guerillas, Jane’d asked for Quentin to come along with her. She’d reasoned that, in addition to being a comfort to her and helping her raise the captain’s child, Quentin would be helpful in preoccupying any children that other soldiers’ families might bring with them. Not having children underfoot all the time would help the captain, surely?

He tried hard, now, to remember some of his own schooling. Had his teachers mentioned if there had ever once been a town, or any kind of settlement, in these woods? Some reason for the tiny piece of art in his hand being abandoned all the way out here?

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a stone slab, stained with decades of discoloring lichen and moss, standing on the other side of the road. It looked to be the same texture as the piece he’d found. Latching onto the distraction, his mother’s moans fading in his ears, he crossed the line of cars and breached through the ferns blocking the way. The front of the rock was decorated with interwoven squares and circles. But when he rounded the slab, the other side made him shiver. He couldn’t look away, no matter how much it unnerved him.

There was a screaming face etched deeply into the stone. The face was a woman’s, her flowing hair carved in cascades branching out on both sides of her head. A huge chunk in the rock marked where the eye in his hand was supposed to go, but that hole was nothing compared to her gaping mouth. _That_ had been bored almost entirely through the stone. But somehow the hole also led downwards as much as inwards, meaning the slab itself was at least somewhat hollow, almost like the carving had been created around it. Was this meant to be some kind of shrine, or a warning, or a monument? Was the mouth supposed to symbolize her hunger? Her agony? Her rage? She held two objects, maybe crosses or some kind of weapons, clenched in her fists. As far as he knew, no deity or saint had ever been depicted like this.

How could someone’ve ripped her eye away from her like that? Not just logistically, but…so ruthlessly?

Shutting down the part of him that scoffed at how ridiculous he was being, that told him he should be back with his mother instead of ignoring her, that said he was just anthropomorphizing something _again,_ he slowly, respectfully, slid the eye back into its place.

A clicking, buzzing sound reached his ears. It was too close to be coming from the cars and trucks, and too staccato to be from any of the men milling around. No, this was coming from directly in front of him. Like a cicada had a baby with a woodpecker, and the offspring had decided to…crawl into the carving’s mouth. And now it was coming out. His heart slammed into his ribcage and he swallowed, jerking back his outstretched hand. The sound grew even louder, and sweat ran down Quentin’s face. Shit, what had he done?

Four brown, spindly legs protruded out of the mouth, pushing past the woman’s stone teeth to climb out into the open. The insect was the color of an entrancing, alarming blue, a hue Quentin’d seen only in the hottest of fires. He stumbled back as its thin antennae, beady eyes, and insanely long thorax followed the legs. The appearance of its abdomen made him cry out, despite his head screaming at him to remain silent. The end was rattling like a snake, at the same tempo as his frantic heart. The creature’s final two legs appeared, and it began slowly climbing up the woman’s face to the top of the stone. Parts of the exoskeleton on its back fluttered, stretching after being confined for so long. When it reached the top, it continued to make that terrifying noise as it pushed its head and chest upright, raising its arms to flex at him with three sharp phalanges.

There was no knowing what calling out for help would do, not when his mother needed more attention than her stupid, reckless son. Running away might just antagonize it further. And…despite everything...he feared the soldiers would kill it, even if it was possibly seconds from attacking him. Who knew how rare this creature was? How it had evolved out here, in anonymity, for so long? How many –

Was it fucking waving at him?

The creature cocked its head to the side, as if wondering if it’d been misunderstood. The alarming noise from its tail calmed, and it put both of its arms up to pat the air with its digits. Quentin furrowed his eyebrows, and he wiped the sweat from his eyes and pushed his hair out of his face. The thing bent its head, peering at him. Moving with measured slowness, it opened up the exoskeleton on its back, and fully extended a pair of gossamer wings. Stained glass was the closest comparison he could make. Each time they fluttered, testing the air, was like being blinded with tiny reflections, the kind made by a pile of new coins under a moving lamp. A awed chuckle escaped him, in spite of everything, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

Suddenly the creature was airborne. It propelled itself upwards, levitating several inches and flying in circles above his head a dozen times. Something almost like joy fluttered in his chest. He’d never seen something this (dare he think it) _magical_ , before. As big as it was, the flexibility it displayed in flight would’ve made sparrows envious. It dipped and dived like a kite on a string. When the sunlight filtered through the thin wings’ material, he felt an entirely different warmth sparkle over his face.

Going into another sharp dive, the insect began a new set of concentric circles around him. It flew so close that he felt the following breeze flutter his tie, then a wingtip brush his cheek. Soon, it hovered directly in front of his face. Its wings moved faster than his eyes could track, transforming into a blur of color like refractions underwater, and they buzzed along with its tail. Not in alarm; more like a happy, singing hum. Its antennae twitched, and it tilted its head to the side. There was a black spotted pattern along its eyes, almost like spectacles. One of its arms raised again, its three (fingers?) digits extending outward, and it…touched his cheek. Quentin blinked a few times, inhaling sharply. The gesture was so…human.

Footsteps crunched through the underbrush behind the stone. The insect darted off into the treetops, the sharp edges of the creature’s fingers scraped his skin as it withdrew. He tried to follow it with his eyes, but he lost it when it flew directly at the sun.

“Hey,” Julia called, peeking around behind the stone. “You okay?”

His breath exploded out of him. “I’m…I just…”

Julia walked over to stand beside him, examining the rock briefly. She turned her head, nudging him with her shoulder as he still searched the sky. “What is it?”

“I saw a…f – ”

The first insane word to pop into his head was _fairy_.

“Frickin’ enormous bug,” he finished. He saw Julia try to follow his gaze, but there was no sign of the creature.

She frowned when she brought her eyes back down to look at him. “What is it really? You’ve barely said anything today.”

She thought he was deflecting. He looked down at his shoes. The easiest way to hide how severely he felt everything crashing back down around him was to smile. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just trying…trying to…figure out how I can help and…what exactly I’m doing out here.”

Julia grimaced. “It’s been all on you for a while, huh? Taking care of your mom? Surviving?”

Swallowing, he shrugged. She’d hit on a part of it. That part, however, really was just a small pile at the bottom of a crater of other shit. A pit threatening to engulf him if he didn’t keep his own head on his shoulders. For his mother’s sake. For the baby’s.

How could he tell Julia, if things went south – if they did or said anything that made the captain dislike them –  there wasn’t anything keeping Quentin and his mother from being killed the second his sibling entered the world? Everyone else out here was loyal to the captain. One word from that man, and every soldier in the army would look the other way, no matter what he decided to do to them. He might say they were Hedge spies. They might end up dead and buried somewhere not too far off.

These ideas hadn’t left him alone since they’d climbed into the car. The Order didn’t condone that kind of senseless violence, of course. It was to be expected of Hedges (as the Order’s propaganda pamphlets explained to anyone who read them), but the Order was the pinnacle of authority and righteousness.

And the Captain _was_ the Order, out here.

Then Julia said, “You and me are a team, got it?” and she clasped his right hand. “I’m not here to replace you. You’ve been doing a good – a _really good_ – job. It’s just not all on you now, that’s all.” With her other hand, she brushed his fringe back behind his ears.

Quentin wasn’t used to this kind of…open display of…reassurance? Affection? He’d never gotten it from his parents, who'd managed a few pats on his back every other birthday. His classmates had usually shoved him in the dirt before tossing a few insults his direction. Even the Shades had always hovered around him, as comets might orbit a drifting moon. But this, from her, was…nice.

He willed himself to look directly into her eyes, like they’d briefly managed to do in the car. He remembered, then, just how open Julia could be, underneath all of that (required) obedience to the captain. She was someone who was actually willing to reach out, to give something of herself, even amidst all this chaos and uncertainty.

“Uh, so…um, thanks,” he said to her, wishing he had the words to tell her more.

Her face brightened, though. “Come on, Coldwater.” she said, tugging him back towards the road. “Your mom’s waiting.”

The use of his father’s name out in the open like that felt like the tiniest of rebellions. Julia hadn’t said it with that intention in mind, he knew. But still, it made him stand up straighter. The same kind of joy he’d felt moments ago with the…( _fairy_ )insect tingled inside his chest again.

His mother waved at them as they emerged from the ferns. Her color wasn’t much better, sweat beading on her brow and the blood drawn from her face. But the sun danced off of her fiery hair, and she glowed for a moment as they came over to climb back in the car. Quentin slid onto the seat, gathering his books back onto his lap, and he settled in for the rest of the trip. The driver was already inside, and as Julia shut the door behind her and his mother, he honked the horn. The growl of many gas-guzzling machines accelerating answered him, and the procession began anew.

“Quentin,” his mother said in his ear. “When we arrive, you need get out and greet the captain. Offer a handshake. It’s not like you’ll have to call him ‘father,’ but anything you can do, right?”

“Right, um, yeah.” He pressed the Fillory books into his legs. Anything he could do…

As the car with Quentin and his family drove farther away, a flash of hot blue speared the summer air. While the vehicles all passed, the insect crawled out from behind a thick fir tree, its tail rattling. Its mouth made a few clicking, chattering noises with its pincers to the empty air as the forest quieted, the roar of the cars getting fainter every moment. The creature peered back at the stone slab from which it had emerged, clicking a few more times. After another moment, it launched itself back into the air, speeding off in the direction of the lodge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****SPOILERS:  
> Since Quentin's mom's name is never given in any of the source material, I decided to call her Jane because I actually pictured Jane Chatwin as his mother in this world rather than his actual mom in season 4. I know that might not make sense, since the Chatwins are in the Fillory books Quentin reads, and the Beast may make an appearance in a later chapter. However, I feel like the edges of reality and fantasy blur together quite a lot in both of these stories. The appearance of Ofelia's mother at the end of the movie is one example. And I prefer Jane Chatwin to Quentin's real mother any day. Also, people beyond the doorway may be, let's say, reflections of faces from Quentin's memories. Ones that held significant meaning to his overall story. Also also, if there was any character who I could remotely accept being married to the captain, it was Jane.


	2. The Unnerving Entrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, when I said slow burn, I meant it. It's in the Ice Age right now, as far as Q knows.

Captain Reynard Corrigan stared unblinking at the road. Around him churned a flurry of activity - privates stacking sandbags to the tune of their barking sergeants, messengers jogging over to lieutenants to deliver reports, cooks dispensing errand boys to fetch more bowls for those lining up for lunch, girls mending socks, and nurses readying hospital tents. In his nimbus grey uniform, without the slightest fold or crease, the captain was the eye of this particular storm. His copper hair was cropped short on the sides, the top cemented in place with expensive gel beneath his hat. His face had been freshly shaved just that morning, and there wasn’t the slightest hint of razor burn dotting his cheeks. He wore black leather gloves in spite of the heat. Nestled in his palm, outstretched to catch the blazing sun, was a silver pocket watch. The glass upon its face was cracked like a spider’s web. To him, there was no other sound in the world right now but its tireless ticking.

He spotted the first cars of the entourage several miles away as they crested the hill.

“Fifteen minutes late,” he remarked, and shut the lid, pocketing the timepiece.

Almost everyone around him stopped moving. Their eyes were drawn to the promise of fresh food and supplies carried by the large trucks. One after the other, each low-ranking man glanced back at the captain, checking to see if this single moment of negligence had been noticed, before they resumed their work. The sergeants and lieutenants didn’t dare risk even that; they were already lining up in two rows in front of the lodge’s main entrance to greet the newcomers.

The first car stopped and killed the engine. Its occupants exited the vehicle to snap smart salutes at the captain. He, however, had already started a brisk walk across the grass, and was followed at a respectful distance by a bald black man. Doctor Henry Fogg stood several inches taller than the captain, and some slight jaundice around his eyes indicated his preference for drink. He’d stuffed his sunglasses into the front pocket of his patched suit, trying to keep his breathing even and his mind off of the antibiotics in his briefcase upstairs. Trailing behind the captain and the doctor was a clerk, who determinedly pushed a metal wheelchair across the uneven ground.

The trio stopped a few feet away from the car with Quentin, Jane, and Julia inside. The latter had just put her hair up into a tight bun. As she got out, she curtsied before stepping to the side, keeping her eyes low. Jane then put her hands out to steady herself as she exited, and the captain stepped forward to greet his wife.

“Jane,” he murmured, examining her from head to toe. His pale blue-green eyes alighted on her stomach, and he reached out to lay his hands upon the swelling bump. He took a deep breath in, and raised his eyes back up to hers. “Welcome,” he said with a smile, stepping to the side and stretching out his hand.

The clerk pushed the wheelchair forward. Jane's eyebrows drew together. She gave the smallest shake of her head and said, “It’s alright, I can walk.”

Reynard met her gaze, and replied in a low voice, “Please. For me.”

Her face fell into a schooled blank expression, and she nodded. She could feel the glances of the captain’s men on her. Not just nearby, but also those standing in a line near the house waiting to greet her. Turning around to ease herself into the chair, she caught Quentin’s eye. He'd tried to banish his thoughts from his face too, but she saw his fear. With the tiniest of nods, she tried to reassure him before the clerk pulled her backwards and started to push her toward the house. Doctor Fogg followed alongside them, his rich voice carrying far as he put some polite questions to her.

“Doctor Fogg will get you anything you need,” the captain called out to Jane.

The doctor glanced back as his name was called, nodded to the captain, and returned to questioning his patient.

Captain Corrigan then turned to Julia. “Get everything unpacked, and then attend me at lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, curtsying again.

As she turned to unlock the trunk, Quentin wondered if it was alright for him to get out now. So far, he’d gone unnoticed in the shadows of the backseat. A stupid wish to just stay there in hiding for the rest of the day flitted though his head. Clutching his stack of books close, he slid forward. Only once he’d gotten to the end, and stuck his feet out, did he realize he’d had his _own_ door on his _own_ side of the car.  

The captain swiveled around and pierced him with a cutting glance when Quentin’s dull brown oxfords popped out. His face was impossible to read.

With his feet half on the ground and his ass half off the seat, Quentin’s blood froze in his veins. In a panic, his bangs fell in front of his face again. Quentin stuck out one of his hands. His mouth was having a hard time catching up with his brain. He stuttered, unsure whether to start with a greeting, or a smile, or even if he was expected to use the man’s name or just call him “captain.”

A black gloved hand lashed out and grabbed Quentin’s fingers, squeezing to the point of sending shooting pain straight up Quentin’s arm.

“It’s the other hand, Mr. Coldwater,” the captain advised, still in the same even tone. He kept the fingers clenched in his own for a few more seconds, then dropped it, marching off toward the closest supply truck.

Shaking and breathing hard, Quentin forced his throbbing hand to push himself the rest of the way out, and he stumbled before standing upright. He glanced around at the soldiers bustling around them. No one paid him any attention. Even Julia, if she had seen what just happened, was entirely occupied with how many suitcases she could safely carry to the house in one trip.

Familiar feelings of uselessness and dread prickled in his mind. What was he supposed to do now? If he followed Jane up to the house, he’d probably wind up standing off to the side while the rest of the staff bustled around her. Maybe there was a hole he could crawl into somewhere. Breathing hard, telling himself over and over that now was _not_ the time to hide, his eyebrows rose in delighted surprise when he saw something familiar.

The blue ( _fairy_ ) insect was back. Or, at least one of its kind? No, it was the same one; there was that same black ring pattern around its eyes. The creature was peeking up from behind a stack of sandbags, making that same clicking sound from the pincers around its mouth.

After a few cautious steps, he stood right in front of it. Its two upper brown limbs were raised up in the air towards him again, its folded wings fluttering. The creature made jerking motions with one arm a few times, like it was trying to latch on to something. It did the same with the other arm a few seconds later, and then returned to making the gesture with the other arm, still reaching for something that wasn’t there. Or…wasn’t there yet?

He swallowed. Inch by inch, he lowered his stack of books to the ground and a little way to the right. If he had to run, best not to stumble over them. Or worse, kick them into the mud.

Never taking his eyes off of the creature, he stretched out his finger like a perch.

The insect launched itself into the air, though, barreling off across the field. He made a small cry of surprise. But before his disappointment could settle in, a smile crept onto his face. The creature had swung itself around near an ancient mill wheel at the back of the lodge, hovering by one of the horizontal blades.

No, not hovering. Waiting.

He sprinted towards the mill wheel before he could think twice about it. Coat flapping in the wind, his lungs filled with the forest air as he raced across the field. Deep scents of fir needles, rotting leaves, and fresh grass overpowered everything else, and his heart lurched in his chest. He hadn’t run like this since he was a boy, the ground flying under his feet, all five senses heightened gloriously. The insect sped off again, leaving the mill and weaving in and out of the first few trees on the edge of the lodge’s land. He raced after it, past the bushes and shrubs, never thinking about where he was going except forward.

He ground his heels into the earth, staggering to a halt to catch his breath, when a massive stone archway rose up before him. It sat in the middle of an equally enormous wall that stretched for miles in both directions, weather-worn but showing no signs of crumbling. More thick stone walls proceeded beyond the arch, forming a corridor which turned gradually to the left.

Sure, the mill seemed old, but this stonework must have been standing here for several _centuries_. Layers of vines crawled up and over the top of the wall. Patches of new and decaying moss fought for space. There was the same grainy, textured appearance to this landmark...as that of the carving he’d found on the side of the road – halfway between natural and manufactured. It must’ve been made by the same people. It had to have been.

Further proof was in the decoration atop the archway. Another… _being_ surveyed the forest. This one was a little less human. Mouth agape, toothless, and with perfectly circular horns sprouting from its forehead, its eyes were mere punctures in the stone, instead of the careful irises in the eyes the woman from the slab. Some of the dead vines curling on the sides of its face almost resembled fine wavy hair, if he really let his imagination run wild.

The blue insect, though, was nowhere to be seen. All the same, Quentin couldn’t resist. He began taking soft, measured steps into the passage, running his hand along the wall as he went. Nothing here was from a quarry; every stone kept its disjointed shape, with a dark mortar keeping the whole thing together after all these years. His feet carried him to the edge of the left wall, and he peered around it to follow the route with his eyes. A few more steps in couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t a place to hide, he told himself. Just a place to explore.

“It’s a labyrinth!” Julia’s voice called out from behind him.

He jumped, taking his hand off the wall and turning around.

She hiked up to him, a smile on her face and her arms crossed over her chest. The sun played across some highlights in her hair, and a breeze ruffled the soft green shawl around her arms. The wind almost seemed to follow her into to the corridor, billowing behind her and ruffling her skirt. She looked like she belonged out here.

 _What am_ I _doing out here?_ Quentin scolded himself.

She came to a stop beside him and peered around the side of the wall too, sneaking a look at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve never managed to figure it out. I heard from a few of the girls that it’s been here since before the mill, before the house…Maybe even before everything?” She quirked an eyebrow at him. Some slight skepticism had crept into her voice, but there was a playful edge to it too.

She wasn’t teasing him, right? Or was she about to start subliminally reminding him he ought to be inside, looking after his mother? Especially after the conversation they’d had about Jane earlier…

“It reminds me of the, uh, the thing we saw on our way here,” he ventured, after an awkward pause.

“Yeah, I can see that,” was all that she offered instead.

Another silence fell upon them.

“Maybe we’ll figure it out together?” he asked.

She turned to face him completely, and he swallowed. Before he could take it back ( _why had he even said that in the first place?!_ ) she grimaced and placed an apologetic hand on his arm. “I think we’ll have too much to do, between the two of us. You’ll have your work and I’ll have mine.” Shrugging, as if to show him how cosmically out of her hands it all was, she brushed past and headed back to the labyrinth’s entrance. Her eyes avoided his.

He remembered the moment they’d shared on the road, when he’d been the one struggling to make eye contact. Maybe he’d been wrong then, thinking that Julia tried to share parts of herself with others whenever possible. Maybe she kept plenty to herself after all.

He fell in step behind her, glancing back once at the archway. He wondered if the insect was still off in the trees nearby; whether he would ever see it again.

Together, they rounded a few of the trees. Julia’d carried several suitcases, including his own, to the edge of the forest. He let his head fall, staring at his shoes as they crunched over pine needles. He really had been childish, speeding off into the woods for no reason like that. The fuck was wrong with him? Making Julia come get him _again_ , like he was one of the Shades who kept wandering off.

They reached the luggage at the same time, Julia bending over to grab the first of many handles. He reached down to help, but his Fillory books were shoved in his face instead. He looked up at Julia’s sardonic smile as she held them out. “Figured you wouldn’t want these sitting in the dirt,” she said.

“Gah, yeah, I - thanks.” He gathered them into his arms, feeling the familiar weight settle into his shoulders. He tried transferring them all under one arm, and he jerked his suitcase off the ground too. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. “Sorry you had to, uh – ”

“Make sure you didn’t get lost in there?” she teased. “Then who’d I have decent conversations with out here?”

“Someone who can string a few sentences together without mumbling. Or stuttering."

“Well, I think your sentences have a...rhythm. Better than regular ones any day.”

He huffed. She was stretching it a bit. They trudged back onto the grass. Most of the trucks were unloaded by now, and the soldiers were ferrying everything from the trucks into a cellar around the back of the lodge. There seemed to be no end to the line of crates, barrels, and boxes.

“So how long are we going to be out here for?” he asked.

“Can’t say for sure,” Julia grunted, shifting one suitcase and trying to get a better grip on it.

“Are there really that many Hedges out here? Didn’t they make some kind of, um, ‘last stand’ a few months back?”

“Even if they did, or even if there were, you think they’d tell me?”

“Right, yeah. Sorry.”

“No biggie,” she chuckled as they drew under the shadow of the lodge. “Just don’t wanna get your hopes up. Why, you got somewhere to be after all this?”

The front door was open, and as they crossed the threshold into the house Quentin glanced up. The rafters were stained a dark and rustic tint. Someone must’ve dusted all the way up there, because there somehow wasn't a single trace of cobwebs. Thick, handwoven carpets lined almost every inch of the stone floor. To the left sat an impressive fireplace, unlit, and a shadowy landscape painting rested above the mantle. Past that was a wide set of closed double doors, which led to some kind of large room if he had to take a guess. A long, sweeping staircase in front of him stretched from one wall to the other, and then it doubled back on itself to reach the second floor’s wide landing.

“No,” he answered, still a bit distracted by the layout. His brain started plotting out where he thought the entrances and exits might be. He’d hopefully have a mental map of the place by tomorrow. Just in case.

Where was his mother? Up in one of the rooms? And where was the captain? He tried listening for Jane’s voice, but there was too much interference from everything else going on outside.

“Nobody’s waiting for you back home?” Julia set down her burden with a relieved hiss.

Quentin cleared his throat. She was probably just asking to make conversation. Wasn’t she? She had to know that he didn’t. He considered mentioning his students, but that wasn’t really true. There was no way of knowing how many of them would still be there to take lessons if ( _when?_ ) ( _no, if_ ) they ever went back to the city. If the captain ever wanted to return to the city…

 _If they ever made it out of here_.

“Home, ha. Next question.”

Julia snorted, but seemed to let the subject drop. “’Kay. Take these up to your mom for me? I have to go check on dinner in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, sure.” He set his things down by the fireplace and went over to her. “Wait, dinner?”

“My hero," she said, seeming not to hear him as she patted him on the shoulder. Heading for a passage next to the stairs, she abruptly turned back as her brain caught up with her.  “Your mom’s probably got your lunch up there with hers,” she clarified, frowning at herself. “I'm sure Doctor Fogg had Silver or Gummidgy bring something up to her. Hopefully she’ll be able to keep it down, now that your brother’s settled. I’ll come check on you guys after I see the captain and put the roast on the fire.” Satisfied that she had remembered everything, she headed through the passage and disappeared from view.

Well, there was nothing else for it. Gathering his mother’s belongings, he managed an odd, lumbering trip up the stairs. All the doors, from one end of the hallway to the other, were closed. Nothing distinguished his mother's room from any of the others. He debated how much embarrassment he’d suffer if he tried knocking on each door until he found her, versus just calling out to her now and hoping someone would answer.

Doctor Fogg saved him by coming out of a door down the hall on the left. The man nodded to him and moved out of the doorway. Quentin started forward, but a maid ( _maybe Silver?_ ) came out of the room with a tray of half-eaten fruits and cheese. She bustled by him without a word. Lunch might not be happening after all, then.

“Looks like I didn’t have to go too far, Mrs. Corrigan,” the doctor called back into the room with a patient smile. His sonorous voice echoed off the bare white-washed walls. “Your son’s right outside.”

Quentin jerked his head in thanks and made his way into the room. His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, propping herself up with both hands and staring at the floor. A shaking exhale escaped despite her best efforts to keep her breathing even. She looked up as Quentin set her things by a dented oak wardrobe on the far left wall beside the bed. Her face was still pale, and sweat had dampened most of her red curls into sticking to her forehead. She managed a weak smile at the site of him. He came over and kissed her hair, then he knelt down to get her heels off.

“Quentin,” Jane said, clearing her throat pointedly, “this is Doctor Fogg.”

Crap, he should have shaken the man’s hand before he’d dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. It wouldn’t be smart to piss off the one guy trained to take care of his mother’s health better than he was.  

Quentin clambered back up immediately and offered his hand to shake, an apology darting out of his mouth. Fogg’s hand was a good two sizes bigger than Quentin’s, but the grip was gentle, and he held it for a comfortable beat before letting go.

“Your mother’s a bit overdue for some rest,” Fogg said, his expression patient. “Could use some more water and a long nap, and I’ve advised she stay in bed for the rest of the day. We’ll see how she fares tomorrow. But now that the adventure’s over, we’re going to make the rest of the pregnancy as relaxing as possible.”

“That’s good to hear, thanks,” Quentin said. “Anything I should do, or could do, or…?”

Fogg shook his head. “Just settle in for now. I promised I’d be back before you both retire for the night. I’ve some prescriptions, and a few supplements, and I’ll check vitals again. Anything I give her, I’ll be sure to provide you with clear instructions. Would you like them written down, or are you better with verbal directions?”

Quentin blinked. He’d never met anyone whose consideration stretched that far. It was a question he’d expect of a _really_ experienced professor, rather than a medical man in the midst of a military campaign. “Uh. Written. Please. But I wouldn’t mind watching you do it first. If there’s anything I’ll need to give her.”

“Happy to oblige,” Fogg said. “Until later, Mrs. Corrigan, Mr. Coldwater.” He smiled at them both and turned to leave, closing the door behind him.

Once the sound of his shoes receded down the hall, Jane let out a relieved sigh. “I’ll be the first to admit, he’d make me feel better about anything,” she said. “Even if they’ve got me stuffed in that wheelchair for the rest of the month.”

Quentin hummed his agreement, and then knelt back down to see to her shoes again. This morning, she’d crammed her swollen feet into pair of shiny tan pumps for the journey, even though she couldn’t stand to walk around in them for too long. When she’d seen the look on his face, she’d reminded him that appearances had to be kept up, no matter how much they hurt. He supposed it was the same now for the wheelchair. It was parked in the corner beside the dresser, impossible to ignore. The captain’s wife always had to look like the captain’s wife.

Besides the wardrobe and another long dresser, there were double doors that led to a huge _en suite_ bathroom on the opposite wall. A small-hearthed fireplace was housed in the near left corner, and someone had crammed in a twin bed on the same wall. They’d placed a few sheets and a single pillow in front of the headboard. Well, that answered the question of whether he was getting his own room. But, he reasoned, seeing where his head would be facing, at least he’d be able to keep an eye out for anyone coming into the room.

Not he’d need to keep an eye out, but…

His mother’s bed, on the other hand, was piled high with feather down pillows and a monstrous comforter. Three blankets sat at the foot of the bed, handwoven with delicate patterns. Once her heels were off, his mother pulled back the covers and settled herself into the bed, tucking the pillows behind her back.

“Hand me one of those, will you?” she asked, pointing to the blankets.

“Are you cold?”

“No, not really. Doctor Fogg thinks I might be a bit anemic. Actually, I’d love some fresh air, if you could open a window.”

Quentin obeyed, tucking the folds of the blanket around her before crossing to the dresser and opening the window above it. The pane groaned a little after he twisted the knob and pushed the frame out.

From here, he could see the line of tents where the soldiers made their camp. If he got a few sour looks later, he wouldn’t be surprised. If any of them bothered to talk to him in the first place, he should probably get ready for those same old questions about why he wasn't one of their number. In their eyes, a young, fit man had to earn the right to sleep indoors.

The edge of the forest also wasn’t too far off, but there was no sign of the stone labyrinth from this angle. Turning his head to peer into the trees, he wondered how far off the Hedges might be; how many of them were out there; whether they knew they were being hunted so harshly. He could feel one of his spirals happening. What would happen if the Hedges broke through the soldiers, and found their way into the lodge? He knew the Order's propaganda for what it was, but war was war. Ransom, kidnapping...people could resort to anything if pushed. Especially if their enemy was pushing harder. 

As with all of the other things he knew deep down he couldn’t control, he tried his best to shove the spiraling thoughts aside. There’d be time to plan for the worst later.

Quentin spent the rest of the day putting their things away, only venturing out of the room to gather his own belongings from the first floor and bring them back up. His stomach made a few growling complaints every now and again. The only person he really felt comfortable asking about food was Julia, but there was small chance of running into her if he went searching. His mother napped most of the time, at least.

He tried to keep the noise down when it came to making up his bed. The worst part came when the fitted sheet refused to go over the mattress unless he turned the whole thing on its side. A series of creaks and groans erupted when he did this, and he saw his mother’s eyes snap awake. She regarded him, an amused eyebrow quirking on her face, before they both started giggling quietly. He finished soon after without too much hassle, and she let her eyes fall shut again as she settled back into the pillows. An orange glow bloomed into the room as time went by and the sun dipped below the tree line. Quentin finally occupied himself with more Fillory as he waited for the promised appearances of either Julia or Doctor Fogg, resuming the passage he’d left off with in the car. The room hadn’t been outfitted with electricity, so he made due with the waning sunlight.

A firm knock on the door brought him out of the Chatwin’s world. When he opened it, Julia stood outside with two steaming bowls of pot roast on a tray. Jane roused herself as the young woman placed the tray around her large belly, thanking Julia for dinner and asking if they might have some candlesticks and tapers, or perhaps a few lanterns, to see what they were eating.

Julia looked around the room, apologizing immediately and reassuring Quentin that he shouldn't worry about speaking to the house staff about anything they needed. He nodded at that. The day he actually felt comfortable doing that would be the day he decided to run away and join the circus, but he thought better of saying as much. As Julia went out of the room, he at least managed to ask her if he could start a fire in the little hearth.

Once Julia returned and the room was lit properly, they dug into their food. They heaped compliments on her about the richness of the meat and the vegetables and broth that came with it. Julia beamed in thanks, but before she could say more the sharp sound of a brass bell echoed from downstairs.

Julia tried to keep the sigh out of her voice. “That’s the captain again. I’ll let Doctor Fogg know you’ve eaten, and he’ll be up soon.” She gave a small wave as she left, leaving the door open.

They both watched her go, and tried to keep some light conversation going in the meantime. Doctor Fogg arrived not long after, and Quentin gathered the bowls back onto the tray and cleared the bed so Doctor Fogg could work.

Peeking his head out, the rest of the house was half-lit with lamps along the hallway and another, larger fire blazing in the fireplace downstairs. He descended to the first floor, ducking through the passageway around the stairs that Julia’d gone through earlier. The kitchen was tucked into the very back of the house, a little cramped but just as clean as he expected. A servant, perhaps that Grummidgy person Julia mentioned earlier, took the tray with a wordless nod, and he found his way back to the foyer.

The wide double doors he’d noticed earlier were half open now. They apparently led to a large dining room. A huge table, with chairs lining it from end to end, took up most of the view. Quentin could hear the captain’s steady voice within. If he listened close enough -

There was small cough behind him, and Quentin swerved around to see Julia carrying another tray, this one laid with glass tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. She bit her lip, which did nothing to keep the smile from her face, and bobbed her head towards the stairs, hinting he shouldn’t stick around out here for much longer. He widened his eyes and nodded, scampering back up without another word.


	3. The Cracked Facade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: this chapter has mentions of suicidal ideation, and bucketloads of mentally unhealthy thoughts. Please check in with yourself about whether you are in a good enough place to read this chapter.

Julia watched Quentin duck back into the room upstairs, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Different thoughts and questions sped around in her brain, and she didn’t find any satisfying answers. After a long moment, she schooled her face into a neutral expression, and headed back into the dining room.

Reynard was bent over a large map that took up the entire head of the table. A small device with a magnifying lens was pressed to one of the sections, and the captain’s gloved hand pushed it around the surface as he peered down.

“They’ll be hard to pin down,” Reynard was saying, tapping another part of the paper with his finger. “So we blockade the forest, like a port.”

Julia rounded the table, careful to keep her eyes low as she came forward.

“No one except us will be allowed on the main roads. All of the food, guns, and medicine will be in our possession here.” His finger tapped the section of the map where the lodge and mill rested. “So if they want it, they’ll have to come through us to get it. Some of them are wounded. If we’re lucky, some of them may even be falling sick from infection or illness.”

Julia set down the tray beside the map. Every movement was measured. Nothing could be too quick, or too slow. She uncorked the bottle, and began to pour the whiskey.

“There are three places we’ll concentrate the men. Here, here, and here.”  He took little brass weights from a wooden box, setting them down on certain lines of the map’s topography.

Julia took the glasses up, and leaned over a few inches to set them down onto the table. Her eyes found themselves on the little weights.

The captain’s hand slid onto her shoulder. Julia’s heart sped up, and she fought the urge to bat his touch away as the pressure made her skin crawl. She kept her breathing even as she raised her eyes.

“Julia, please tell the doctor that I wish to see him in the basement shortly.” Reynard gave her shoulder a little squeeze.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She took the tray and left the room, only daring to breathe when she had closed both of the wide doors behind her and pressed her back to them.

Nothing was wrong, she told herself over and over. Everything’s okay.

After she got herself back under control, she found the doctor instructing Quentin on a sleeping tincture for Jane upstairs.

“Two drops before bed,” Fogg said, demonstrating this with a long dropper. The amber liquid dissolved into a glass of water, and he handed this to his patient. While she took a long drink, he placed the dropper back into its bottle and handed it to Quentin.

Julia hesitated at the doorway. She recalled several times back in the city when the baby had woken Jane in the middle of the night. Quentin had always been by her side during these uneasy hours. Who knew how long either of them had gone without a proper night’s sleep? Though she'd never say this to anyone if asked, she felt in her gut that Jane should have stayed away from this place. She’d prayed for it, actually, before she’d been instructed to head the entourage collecting her. This forest was about to become a battlefield. No mother should be subjected to this. The baby was due any day now. Who knew what might happen when the fighting erupted around them?

She shook herself out of it and knocked on the door frame. “Doctor Fogg, the captain requests you see him in the basement as soon as you’re done.”

“Well, I’m about finished anyway,” he said, and then turned to Jane. “Please come get me whenever you need me. No matter what it is, no matter what time of day, or night.” A kind smile touched his face.

Quentin and his mother both gave their promises to do so, and the doctor packed up his medical briefcase.

As Fogg turned to leave, Julia asked the pair by the bed, “Speaking of: anything else I can get you before you head to bed?”

Jane shook her head. “I don’t think so. Quentin, you have everything you need?”

He blinked a couple times and swallowed. Julia saw him fidget with his hands before he finally answered, “Think I’m good. Um, tomorrow, can you show me around a little?”

The more time Julia spent with Quentin, the more she saw now that getting him to speak up for himself was like pulling teeth. She hadn’t seen Jane step up for him too much back in the city. He’d had a profession back there, and a group of kids that looked up to him. He’d been a respected member of the community, such as it was. He wouldn’t exactly pipe up when something was bothering him, but he managed to answer questions with confidence, and people listened to his ideas. With this move out to the forest, he was like a fish yanked onto the shoreline, convinced no one was going to ask if he still needed to breathe and surprised anytime anyone remembered he was there.

Okay, yes, she’d promised herself that she’d keep her distance when it came to him and his mother, but a few more gestures of goodwill couldn’t hurt. “I’ll find a moment to sneak away,” she promised, giving him a salute. “See you both in the morning, then.”

Quentin’s eyes regained a bit of their light at that, and he nodded his thanks.

She gave a small wave and left alongside the doctor. Midway down the hall, she grabbed Fogg’s sleeve to stop him from heading down the stairs to the captain. “You need to go see them,” she whispered, trying to keep the pleading out of her voice.

Fogg glanced all around them, and then opened his medical bag again. The mask of professionalism fell from his face. She expected to see some kind of reassurance, but when his eyes met hers they were filled with fear and regret. “It’s impossible for me to leave for that long tonight. Not without it being noticed.” He moved a few things around in his bag, in case they were being watched.

A cold pit of dread filled her stomach. “They need you! And his leg wound is getting worse.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Fogg produced a small package wrapped with paper and twine, and he shoved it into her hands. “Take this. It’s antibiotics; the best I could get. It won’t be too hard for you to sneak away.” He met her eyes again, pain etched into the lines of his forehead. “There are moments where we have to pick our battles, Julia. And if we are truly seeing this through to the end, many more will be upon us before long.”

Julia looked down at the package, clenching it into the folds of her skirt. She tried to keep her breathing steady. There was constantly a hum of dread in the back of her mind these days. Most of the time she was an expert of keeping it quiet. It was surging forward now, her usual inner calm torn down by too many variables. Without another word, Fogg snapped his bag closed, gave her one last apologetic look, and headed down the stairs before she could say anything else.

Before she could descend further into panic, she called up everything she normally used to keep herself grounded. The faces of her loved ones, the sound of wind billowing through the trees, and that quiet complete faith she had in the cause she was here for. As her heartbeat began to slow, she turned at the sound of creaking wood behind her.

Quentin was staring at her from the bedroom, halfway to closing the door.

Oh FUCK.

How much had he seen?! Could he have heard them?!

His eyes fell on the little package still clutched in her hands, and then they darted back and forth between her, the ledge of the balcony, and then back into the room toward his mother. He took in a shaky breath, looked at Julia one last time, and then he closed the door.

She stared after him. If he breathed a word to anyone, even his own mother, it was as good as signing her death certificate. He might not know who the antibiotics may be for (if he’d heard that that’s what they were), but if he said anything…then that would shine a light on everything she did, at the very least. 

At worst, the captain would punish her himself.

For the first time, she wondered if Quentin was about to become her enemy. In the city, there hadn’t been anything among his belongings or conversation to show he supported the Order. But there hadn’t been anything telling her he was against it, either. A lot of civilians lived like that – unable to care much about who was in power, because their main focus was having enough to feed themselves the next day.

After everything Julia had seen, normally she'd say if a person wasn’t outright opposing the Order, they were still against the Hedges. But there had to be a line somewhere: a difference between the innocent bystanders, and the ones who sought to profit from anything the Order did. Quentin…well, she knew in her heart that he didn’t see things that way.

But would he start to see things that way…if it was for his mother and the baby?

She shook herself. Just standing here wasn’t going to solve anything. She couldn’t go after him; that would just rouse Jane’s suspicions. The only thing she could do was be brave. Dusting off her blouse, she used her shawl to conceal the package and went down to the first floor. She headed back into the kitchen, waved at Gummidgy as she went out the back door into the night. 

 

* * *

 

Quentin, meanwhile, was still standing behind the bedroom door. His fingers clenched the handle, until he could get himself together enough to release it. He couldn’t turn back to Jane right away; whenever something bothered him there was no way to keep it off of his face. So he crossed over to the lanterns around the room, extinguishing them one by one. The fireplace could use some tending too. He went over and poked some of the charred logs.

Jane had asked him to close the door, a chill settling over her now that her body was done sweating itself dry. He wished he hadn’t gone to do it so quickly, or maybe had done the lanterns first. Now he had to wrestle with what he’d seen. He knew himself - he wouldn’t be able to forget it no matter how hard he tried. Did he dare say something to Julia tomorrow? He didn’t want this to ruin their tentative friendship. It was the only one he had out here.

But what the hell was that package for? She'd looked so scared...and when she stared at him, for just a moment that friendship instantly meant nothing to her. Just because he'd seen her.  

Jane’s muffled voice roused him. “You stir up that fire any more, the coals won’t last the night,” she chided. Her voice was heavy as sleep began to settle upon her.

Leaving the poker on the hearth, he turned around to see her eyes fighting to stay open. With the shadows growing around them, she probably couldn’t see his face. Good.

He moved to crouch next to the bed, taking her hand.

She hissed in displeasure. “Your hand’s ice cold.”

Probably from the door handle, or the poker. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing his palm on his pants. Before he could reach for her again, some kind of creaking, groaning sound echoed behind him. He jumped up, glancing at the wall.

A small chuckle came from Jane, and she half opened her eyes to follow his gaze. “It all sounds different out here, doesn’t it?”

“Different?” he asked. He shook himself and sat on the bed beside her.

“No cars...or trains, no sounds of the city,” she yawned. “Old houses like these…as they settle, they make all sorts of noises.”

“Sounds like your back when you get up in the morning,” he mumbled.

A few puffs of air came from her nose, about as much of a laugh as she could manage. She let him have that one. “I have a surprise for you tomorrow,” she said, the smile lingering on her face.

“Mom, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to do something for you. And no, it’s not a book.”

He snorted, for her sake. A book actually would have raised his spirits more than anything else, but nevermind. He thanked her as more creaks reached his ears, offset by the crackling from the hearth.

A number of questions still crowded around in his head. Things he couldn't put off; things he had to know now, before anything got more complicated. He finally settled on asking the one he thought he might get the easiest answer from.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you love Captain Corrigan?”

Jane shifted, almost turning onto her side but unable to move much farther because of her stomach. “He takes good care of us, even though the Order expects much from him,” she said.

Quentin genuinely had no idea what his mother meant by “good care.” The fact that she wasn’t giving him, of all people, a straight answer stung more than he expected. “Yeah, but do you love him?”

“Your father meant the world to me. There have been…few worse things in my life than losing him.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. Maybe that was the answer, he reasoned. Maybe it was just disguised among all the other words. Some part of him was ready to be satisfied with that.

Until she said, as if it were some kind of explanation, “Your brain breaks, sometimes, remember?”

He stiffened. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own bed. Knowing from experience that she wouldn’t let it drop until he agreed, he managed a shaky, “Yeah. But – ”

“I can’t be alone – ”

“You’re not – ” he tried to say.

“You’ve had days where you thought about…about leaving me,” she pressed, gripping his arm.

His eyes jerked open, but he couldn’t make himself look at her. 

_Leaving._

Was that what she called it? There were other words, darker words, that she could have used.

“I don’t know if you could keep yourself from…doing that, if you were drafted,” Jane said, twisting the cloth of his jacket in her fist. “Reynard keeps that from happening. Because of him, you won’t die in some battlefield God knows where. Either from a Hedge bullet, or one from your own - ” she stopped herself. Finally, she finished with, “So, because of Reynard, I can keep you here. Because of Reynard, I won’t be alone. I’ll love him for that, if nothing else.”

A chasm opened up inside his chest. Guilt pounded through his body in tandem with his heartbeat. Hearing the real reason why he was “unfit” for soldiering, it all made a kind of horrible, ironic sense. That voice in his head, the one that told him to… _leave_ , as his mother put it…he’d been fighting it every day. For her. Especially _because_ of the captain.

But part of the reason why the captain was here, was _him_. Oh God…

It was fucking disgusting, how weak he was. Fucking worthless, never able to keep himself steady on his own.

The terrifying thing was, he didn't know if she was wrong about him.

Tears prickled at the edge of his eyes. There was a roaring in his ears.

When it came down to it, his mother believed she _was_ alone. Because obviously he wasn’t going to keep himself alive, right? Not on his own. Because he wasn’t strong enough. So she had to do this for him, and for herself. That’s what she’d just said, right?! His stupid fucking brain was too broken for him to _ever_ get strong enough on his own! All that self-hatred, eating away at everything like caustic acid even on his good days...

And shit! Why not get another child! One that won't be broken, just in case the first one FUCKING OFFS HIMSELF.

No, he couldn’t fucking cry. Not in front of her. But what was he supposed to say?! Some kind of apology? A FUCKING "THANK YOU?!"

“I love you,” he mumbled instead, his voice almost breaking.

“You too,” She released his sleeve and smoothed out the wrinkles. Like that was the end of it.

A thick quiet settled over the room. He knew he should wish her goodnight now and get ready for bed himself. He just needed to...to...

Then, there was a slight push from beneath the covers. The baby was moving. They both gasped quietly. His was one of relief, in spite of everything, because in some crazy way it felt like the baby was reaching out to him. Jane's was out of surprise and discomfort. Quentin turned to see her pressing her eyes shut as another small bump thrust against her belly, a heel or a hand. He pushed his fingers into hers. She’d need something to hold onto for a moment. She crushed his hand a few times as the light from the fire danced over her face.

“Darling, tell your brother and me one of your stories, would you?” she asked.

The complete reversal of her dependence on him…he could never get used to it. It hadn’t started with her pregnancy. He couldn’t pin down exactly when she’d first been able to blast through his armor, and then ask him for favors right after. Like a wound in the open air, or stepping out into a night with negative temperatures, none of what she’d said could be fixed by just covering it up, by burying it deep down and acting like everything was normal.

But he had to, again and again and again. Because she was more important; worth more than he was.

Because the baby was more important, whether they were here to replace him or not. They had to have the chance to live. Because he couldn’t leave them alone either, right?

And it was true, his brother or sister always settled whenever he told a story. That, at least, he could trace back to its beginning. Hell, it calmed him just as much as it did the baby. Maybe this was the best way to end this fucked up night.

“Yeah, of course,” he whispered.

As he gathered himself together, shoving every bad thought and all the revelations into a pit inside his heart, he tried to search his memory. Quentin tended to avoid Fillory whenever he did this, knowing that his mother would only tolerate the plot once or twice. Most of the tales he recited were from memory, like myths from collections in the library, or penny dreadfuls from newspapers, since buying books had been way out of their budget back home.

In the back of his mind, there was this…spark of…something. An illustration, from a book that…damn, he couldn’t remember the title. It’d been so long since he’d read it. But the details were achingly familiar, as though he’d only put it down yesterday. He could see the pictures accompanying the words hazily, like through a fog. The colors bled together a little, but he knew he could go far with this one. The words were clear and sharp, itching on his tongue, like the pages they were written on were right in front of his face.

And honestly, they’d earned a little fantasy tonight.

He leaned over, putting his hand on Jane’s stomach, and put his mouth a few inches above the blankets.

“Long ago,” he intoned, “in a far-off kingdom, lived the daughter of a brave knight. The knight had always wanted a son to whom he might pass on his skills. So, while father and daughter loved one another, she often felt herself a disappointment to him.”

He stopped, realizing a few parallels here he hadn’t meant to suggest. But his mother’s eyes had drifted closed, and her breathing was steadily deepening. So he went on:

“One day, a witch kidnapped the knight. The daughter pleaded with her to return him. The witch said no, but he could be rescued if the girl could complete a quest. ‘There are seven keys,’ said the witch. ‘Find them, and you can open your father’s prison, the Castle At The End Of The World…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone please save this depressed super nerd, am I right? (In other words, Eliot and Co. are coming soon, don't worry.)


	4. The About-Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains that violence I mentioned in the tags. 
> 
> Super-mega-ultra thank you you to everyone who's been reading and leaving kudos and comments. You keep me typing every spare moment I can!

Far below Jane’s bedroom, in the undercroft of the lodge, the ticking of Reynard’s silver pocket watch had gone silent. It was nestled in the captain’s outstretched hand again, only now its face was propped open, the bright brass gears exposed to the air. A white swab in his other hand ghosted over each cog, poking in between with the gentlest pressure.

Reynard set the swab aside. He readjusted the monocular nestled into his left eye. He picked up a silver pick, whose head bordered on the microscopic, and pressed it within the center shaft and cannon pinion. Even with the lens pressed to his eye, he still found himself squinting. Small twitches passed along the nerves in his arm, and his thumb and pointer finger pressed in one millimeter at a time. His ears detected the telltale scraping sound he was hoping for.

With another small adjustment, the pick was extracted and it moved over to the intermediate winding wheel, narrowly avoiding the delicate area of the crown wheel’s cogs where they met with their partner’s. There was no scraping sound this time, he was pleased to hear. He moved the pick away, picking up a fresh swab, and he dusted along the inside one last time.

Finished at last, he removed the monocular and placed it alongside all of the tools spread out over his desk. Surveying the interior of the watch, his eyes danced over the sections. He moved a small wheel with the pick, and the watch began to tick once again. Inwardly, he was grinning.

There was a knock on the doorframe. Doctor Fogg stood on the threshold, a guard at his elbow.

“Come on in, doctor,” Reynard said. He let a warm, welcoming tone settle over his voice. “How's my wife?”

The doctor crossed the cavernous room, his shoes echoing on the stone floors. He glanced up at the massive wooden wheel in the arch behind the captain's desk. The wheel was long dormant, but served its purpose. It reminded those entering the room how tiny they were. He cleared his throat as he came to a stop before the captain, who onehandedly started to put all his tools back in their kit and away into a lower drawer.

Reynard looked up, letting more warmth seep into his eyes. A phrase his mother once said, about catching flies with honey, flitted though his mind. He tried not to grind his teeth at the thought of her.

Fogg transferred the handle of his bag from one hand to the other. “Your wife is very weak. Quentin is watching over her now.”

“Better not disturb her tonight, then. I’ll sleep down here. And how is my son?” Reynard asked, putting one leg over his knee, and he settled back in his chair.

Fogg’s eyebrows drew together, although Reynard could see he was trying to keep his face neutral. _Good_ , he thought. _Squirm_. There was no way he meant that coward Jane brought along with her, but he wondered if Fogg might make that mistake all the same.

The ticking treasure in his palm continued to sound tirelessly around them. Two of his lieutenants rounded the corner and came into the room, calling for him. He halted them with a gesture. What Fogg had to say would come first. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” Fogg said after a moment. He even went so far as to offer a reassuring smile. “He’s strong and healthy.”

Reynard returned the smile, showing his white teeth. “Wonderful,” he said. He closed the watch and placed it in his pocket. Then he got to his feet, reaching for his hat.

“If I may….” Fogg went on.

Reynard nodded, amused. He nestled his hat in the crook of his elbow.

“Your wife shouldn’t have traveled so far in such a late state of pregnancy. Why did you bring her here?”

 _Ohhhh_ , _you’re brave_. Reynard felt a wave of glee wash over him. He chuckled good-naturedly, and he went over to put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder for a moment. “A son should be with his father when he’s born, don’t you think?” he asked, before giving the man a pat and brushing past so his men could lead him out of the room. He smoothed his red hair before settling his cap over his ears.

“One last thing.”

If Reynard could have cackled out loud just then, he would have. Fogg was going to be so much _fun_ to work with. “Of course,” he returned.

“What makes you so sure the baby's male?”

His delight soured. With all the politeness of a true Order soldier, Reynard said, “Don’t fuck with me,” and left the room.

As his men led him through the lodge towards the open air, Reynard felt his blood starting to boil. It wasn’t that he merely hoped for a boy. He would accept _nothing less_ than a boy. After everything his own mother had said; after everything she had done to him! His teeth ground together. Any offspring of his would obliterate any _trace_ of womanhood from his line. He would make sure of that. And if any of his children dared to be female…well…

The night hung heavy around them as they stepped outside. At sunset, the wind had died, and now not a single blade of grass stirred, nor did any crickets begin their song. Bright moonlight cast only a few shadows among the rows of tents, bathing the landscape in hues of grey.

“We found two men poking the edges of our defenses, captain, after we heard the sound of gunfire,” one of the lieutenants was saying as they climbed the small hill around the side of the building. “They claim they were just hunting rabbits, but one of the privates says he caught them with Hedge literature in their bag.”

Reynard’s eyebrows rose at that, and he bit his lip in anticipation. If there was a chance to recapture some of his good mood, he’d take it. 

At the top of the hill, a crowd of soldiers stood waiting for him. In their midst stood two men in shabby clothes. The one on the right was an elderly, balding man. Blood trailed into his eyes and down his cheek from a gash on his forehead. One of his soldiers must've gotten a little enthusiastic.

The other was much younger, just coming into his middle age. He fiddled with a wool cap in his hands, and his eyes glanced up every few seconds before trailing down again in submission. Reynard wondered which one would be the first to crack.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, a ten-year-old rifle in his hands. He offered it to the captain. “We found this weapon on them, sir. It was fired recently.”

“Please, captain – ” the old man said.

“Silence,” said Reynard, waving the rifle away and grabbing a satchel from the hands of another soldier.

“Captain, we were hunting rabbits,” the old man pleaded.

“You’re not helping your case,” Reynard advised him softly. He started pulling papers out from the bag. The first few were newspaper clippings. These he let idly drift to the ground. Then his fingers found a thick booklet, and he drew it out to examine the cover. “’No order, no country, no master?’ How do you like that?” he asked his men, returning the satchel to the one he’d taken if from. He heard some of his men shift, their muscles tensing. Many of them gripped their own weapons tighter. Reynard drank the tension from the air like a fine malt scotch.

“Hedge propaganda,” one of the lieutenants spat.

“No,” the young man cried, “it’s not! It’s an almanac. An old almanac.”

The old man chimed in, “We’re farmers, sir, please.”

Reynard tilted his head, the buttons on his jacket gleaming in the moonlight. “Go on.”

The two prisoners shared a look, daring to hope. The old man haltingly explained they had a farm a few miles away. They’d gone into the woods for rabbits for his daughter-in-law, Anais. She was sick. They didn’t have enough food. As the story went on, Reynard reached back into the bag. He felt something round and hard with his fingers, and he extracted a dark green bottle, with some amber liquid sloshing around inside. Opening it, he sniffed its contents. The old man faltered in his story when he saw this.

Reynard let the man wonder whether the soldiers might accept the alcohol as a bribe. He wedged the cork back in.

The young man stepped forward. “My father just wanted to – ”

The captain slammed the bottle across the young man’s cheek with a backhanded jerk. He fell to the ground as his father shouted in alarm. Before he could recover, Reynard grabbed the lapel of his jacket and tilted him back just a few inches. The captain brought the butt of the bottle down hard onto the man’s face. There was a brutal crunch as his nose broke, blood running down his lips and onto his shirt. Reynard slammed the bottle down again, and this time he felt the bones of the man’s skull crack from the force of it. Again and again, over the screams of the old man and the utter silence from his men, Reynard continued beating his face with the bottle until there was nothing but a pulpy cavity of skin, bones, and blood. The young man convulsed with each impact, and then stilled as the fight utterly went out of him.

Like a pile of dirty laundry, Reynard tossed the limp body to the ground beside the fluttering newspapers.

“Richard! You killed him,” the old man sobbed. “You murderer! You killed – “

Two quick pistol shots cracked through the air. The old man fell dead to the ground beside his son, and Reynard tucked his gun back into his belt, his breathing even and his heart rate steady, as if he had just finished with a boring strategy meeting. He turned back to the satchel one last time, and dug his hand down deep for any other ‘evidence’ he might need.

His fingers stilled at what they found, and a twinge of surprise flitted through him. He pulled from the satchel…two dead rabbits. The matted blood on their fur glistened as it mixed with Richard’s on his black gloves. He glared at the lieutenant. In a bored monotone, he said to the lieutenant, “Make sure you search assholes like these more thoroughly, before you come bothering me.”

Reynard turned to head back down the hill, gripping the ears of the rabbits as they swung in the air. Finally he let himself _truly_ smile, a grin from ear to ear.

The group of soldiers, meanwhile, were all white as a sheet. A few of them glanced down at the two bodies. No one was ready to volunteer to bury them. One of the taller sergeants muttered in a private’s ear, “He’s ‘The Fox’ in all the stories for a reason. Don’t ever forget that.”

 

* * *

 

The sound of gunshots reached the ears of the blue insect. It raised its head, its pincers clacking together in agitation. It spread its wings and jumped off the stone arch where it had been hiding, and it sped out into the glass clearing. With no wind, navigating the empty air was easy, and it found the gaggle of men standing over the dead farmers in no time. It surveyed every inch of the scene, noting the cooling bodies and the nervous twitches of all of the soldiers. Not willing to risk staying here for too long, since the buzz of its wings would get their attention, it left the men on the hill and began circling the outside of the lodge and mill. It checked each window it came across, peering into the panes for a few moments and then moving on to the next.

The middle window along one wall was halfway open. The creature landed on the sill, and peered into the room.

Jane was dreaming, her breathing deep and even. Her eyes darted back and forth beneath her eyelids.Quentin’s exhales, on the other hand, were an unmistakable clue he was still awake.  

He hadn’t been able to catch any sleep since he’d climbed under the covers. Once Jane had drifted off, he did anything to keep himself occupied. That meant banking the fire, closing the window just enough to keep the air flowing without chilling the room, and changing into his pajamas. But the second he was in his own bed, there was nothing left to distract him. His brain was on the cusp of breaking, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to stop it. Not after what his mother had said.

The creature crawled into the room, launching into the air to alight on one of the rafters. Quentin bolted upright when he heard the sound. Of all the unexpected things...the ( _being? friend? guide?)_ from the forest was back. The moonlight and the embers cast only the barest glow into the room. Everything was more shadows than shapes. He looked around everywhere, starting every time the creature sped from one side of the room to the other. Almost like it was making sure he was paying attention. Every once in a while, there was a flash of light as the moon glanced off its fluttering gossamer wings.

“Mom?” he whispered.

But Jane never stirred.

How long was this going to go on? Shit, what would happen if she woke up? Was he going to have to catch it and, like, release it back out the window? Had it gotten stuck in the room, like a moth looking for a light source, and it couldn’t figure out how to get back? Sticking his feet out and down onto the floor, he jerked them back onto the bed, barely stopping himself from crying out. The creature had run across his toes, skittering along the floors. Jesus, how was he going to do this?

Then the fluttering sounds stopped. He saw the creature was climbing onto the foot of his bed. The moonlight turned its blue hue into an iridescent silver. It clambered atop the pile of his blankets, and gazed at Quentin with unblinking eyes, standing tall like a lithe praying mantis, or a stick bug.

Several moments in complete silence passed. Every so often, Quentin would risk a quick glance over to his mother, but most of the time he waited for the creature to do something. It seemed to be observing him just as intensely.

Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He dared to reach out his hand towards it, just like he had done before in the clearing.

It held out its own, well, _fingers_ , and rested them on his pointer finger with the barest pressure. It cocked its head to the side, and then nodded and reached out another limb to place it on his finger too. There was a small scratching sensation as the digits settled on his skin.

A grin spread across Quentin’s face. “Hi,” he whispered.  

The creature clicked and clacked in response, along with a few chirps.

“You keep finding me,” he said in awe.

This time, it nodded.

He inhaled so fast that he nearly choked on air. "Um, you, you understand me?!"

It nodded again.

“H-how…how can…are you…”

He was turning into a stuttering mess. His mind was bouncing around at a hundred miles an hour. This moment was like…like when he’d first fallen in love with books. No, it was bigger than that.

Long, long ago, he’d had to bury a part of himself deep down. It wasn’t right to call it his “inner child;” it wasn’t something so definitive and reductive as that. But it was a hopeful, believing-in-the-impossible kind of thing that he’d had to shield inside, and never reveal to any other person ( _even himself sometimes)_  as he’d grown older and seen the world torn apart by war. That part had no place in this harsh reality. If he hadn't buried it, it might have been crushed forever. The only barely acceptable outlet had been Fillory. But even then, he always had to pretend to set the books aside whenever necessary. He had to acknowledge the fantasy as just that: make-believe, fiction, impossible, childish, naïve, insert-every-derisive-adjective-here.

Above all, he’d had to pretend to everyone he met that he knew there was no such thing as magic. But here, in the dark, surrounded by the groans of a creaking old house on the edge of the wilderness, raw from his mother’s confession and battered with self-loathing, the layers of protection he’d woven over it were loosening.

“What are you?” he asked.

The creature wobbled its head back and forth. It chirped and clicked again, then stopped. It chirped and chittered a bit more, the sounds turning more and more agitated. Even though he’d never seen an insect breathe before, this one was starting to huff quite a lot. One of the arms on its thorax clenched its digits into something like a fist and it struck the blanket hard.

“No, hey, it’s okay!” he said, shushing it with his other hand. If there was anyone truly experienced with how a mouth never communicated what one really wanted to say, it was him. He scoured around, and then he remembered the books beside his bed. “I got this, hold on.”

Trying not to jostle the creature too much, he reached down until he felt the rough surface of _The Flying Forest._ He pulled it into the bed with him, flipped to a random page, and turned it around. He had no idea if this would work.

But if this thing could nod, it might be able to at least point to some words.

When it was presented with the book, though, it jerked back its head in surprise and peered back up at him. He looked down, and saw a silhouetted picture of a fairy on the page. Well, he hadn’t meant to do that. But now…an idea tickled at the back of his mind.

Fuck it.

“Are you a fairy?” he asked.

It shook its head frantically, making more gestures with its hands and clicking up a storm.

“Shhh shh shhhh, sorry, okay, forget it.”

It paused, and then he could have sworn it let out a long sigh. It turned its back on him, stretching its wings out fully. He worried it was seconds from taking off again, like he’d offended it or something, but then it started to shake. Its wings split from two to four, like those of a butterfly. And its body began changing. In a blink, its middle arms disappeared, and its torso shrunk into its body. With another round of spastic shaking, golden blonde hair suddenly sprouted from its head. The bright blue exoskeleton completely vanished, and it developed the figure of a tiny, beautiful human woman in a black and white dress. When it turned around to face him again, the black markings around its ( _her?_ ) eyes were now actual tiny glasses.

“Uuuuhhh…you sure you’re not a fairy?” he muttered, trying not to giggle.

She rolled her eyes at him, then took a second to examine herself and her new wings. Finally, like it was pointless to argue about it, she gave a confused shrug. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out were the same chirps as before. A fury erupted in her eyes, and she had to take several deep breaths before she could settle down. Hopping up on the book, she pointed at one of the words on the page.

“Come…” Quentin read aloud.

She darted over to two others.

“With. Me,” Quentin said, and then he raised his eyes to look at her. “Where?”

He suspected the answer long before she painstakingly combed over every sentence on the pages, and then pointed at one letter at a time to spell, “Labyrinth.”

Quentin sucked in a breath, adrenaline spiking through him. That buried part of himself was yanking free, ready to sprint out the door and through the woods again.

Closing his eyes, the creaks and groans of the lodge muffled any sounds he tried to pick out in the night. There'd been gunshots not five minutes ago somewhere outside. Who knew if it was a trigger-happy guard, or if it was just someone cleaning their piece and it misfired? Who knew if he could get out of the house undetected, much less sneak through the forest?

But she'd keep an eye out for him. She needed _something_ from him - she'd been trying to get his attention all day. It's not like she would lead him straight into danger.

Or would she?

He swallowed. All the stories with magical creatures out there were half comedy, half tragedy. They could be helpers, or the very danger that led a hero to his death. Fairy help, in particular, always came with a price, right?

Then the memory of Jane’s confession from before crashed into his head. If he went to the labyrinth, wasn’t that leaving her, just as she feared? Either in the literal sense, or in the…other way.

No. It’s not like he was going to die out there…

He remembered the tears he’d had to force back, to save face for her. He had to come back. For her and the baby, right? Right?

_Right?_

After another deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at the fairy. “I have to come back, okay? I’ll return safe and sound?”

Because that was what he should ask. That’s what he was supposed to ask.

_Even if deep down…he didn’t want to._

She started in confusion, glancing all around the room. She didn’t give more than a sparing glance for his mother, like she was just another piece of furniture. A few dozen emotions crossed her face. But, after she appeared to settle on a decision, she nodded with confidence.

Sliding out of bed, he stuffed his bare feet into his shoes. “Okay, show me.”


	5. The World Falls Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've been waiting for: Quentin meeting the...he hem..."spirit" of the labyrinth.

No one stirred inside the lodge. The front door made no sound as he inched it open and then shut it behind him. If there were any guards about in the night, they seemed to have their eyes peeled away from the building and out into the woods. The fairy stayed close by, hovering a few feet in front of him as he pressed himself around the edge of the building and bolted into the trees. Sometimes she launched herself up high, scanning their surroundings, before returning to guide him further.

When they got to the archway he’d found before, she sped right through it. He didn’t hesitate to follow her. The thought of turning back crossed his mind, but it didn’t stay for very long. He went along with the same certainty he felt when dreaming: going further was the soundest logic in the universe.

As he and the fairy navigated the pathways together, most of the turns veered away not in sharp angles but gentle curves, often doubling back on each other. No wonder Julia never figured it out. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was still on its outer edges instead of winding in deeper and deeper. The fairy thankfully took the lead most of the time here, so he never ran into a dead end or had to retrace his steps.

Finally, they reached the center. At its heart sat a black, yawning, perfectly symmetrical hole in the ground. Some grey stone steps descended into the hole along its edge. Twisting roots grew in between them. His little friend went over to hover above the first one, and she beckoned him with both tiny hands.

 _The call of the void,_ he thought for a brief, hysterical moment. Because this was when danger, with a capital D, was going to rear its ugly head, right? This whole thing looked nothing so much as an entrance to some kind of lair or nest. And it’s not like he had any kind of magic sword or flying sandals or, fucking....special armor or something. He hadn’t thought to bring _anything_ to protect himself.

The fairy buzzed over to study his face. Reading his expression in a heartbeat, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, she pushed his bangs out of his face and across his forehead, and placed her palm on his cheekbone. Almost the same way Julia did, but somehow with much more ease and practice. She shook her head at him, and her reassuring smile banished the icy fear trying to creep down his spine. Damn. Something – _someone_ – like her couldn’t be entirely evil, right? He let out the air building inside his lungs, and started towards the stairs. The whirring of her wings followed right behind him, and she dove down into the hole.

Descending slowly, he saw it opened up to a cavern after all. Well, not just a cavern: it was an antechamber. It looked as though it’d been sunk down into the soil, and the hole was just a part of its ceiling. Or maybe this room had always been there, and the world on the surface just grew over it. More moss, vines, roots, and dead plants covered the rocks and ledges within, and the bright moonlight illuminated a massive dry fountain at the cavern’s center. Rather than some sculpted statue and piping, inside the fountain was a sunken square dais. Around the square's base, in the floor of the fountain, were stacks of tiles, arranged in reds, oranges, greens, blues, yellows…

Had the sunken part been on the floor, instead of inside a fountain, he might have thought…

No. It didn’t look anything like what his books said it should.

The little fairy woman landed on the edge of the fountain, and began making odd gestures with her hands. Like she was molding something he couldn’t see…maybe folding up a box, or conducting an orchestra, or braiding ribbons, or –

He heard the scuff of a shoe somewhere in the shadows.

“Hello?” he said.

There were more scraping sounds, and the clunk of heels. Like whoever made them was coming closer. The fairy turned her head to chitter at the empty air a few feet away. He still couldn’t see anything moving in the shadows, but the fairy didn’t stop moving her hands while she apparently reprimanded…whoever was there.

The sounds stopped, and she turned back to concentrate on the precise angles of her fingers, the quick adjustments of bending certain joints just so. The room grew brighter, the light yellowing out as the shadows receded. Now the hole above his head appeared much darker than the room he stood in, while the rest of the cavern was lit up as though it were broad daylight.

Quentin had. Just. Seen. Magic. Again. Holy. Shit.

She made a final gesture, like she was weaving a cord with one hand, and then she tugged it down. Now a tall shadow was condensing into the air. A man appeared to fade slowly into reality beside the fountain, and the fairy flew up to perch on his shoulder and whisper in his ear. Short black hair fell about his face in tousled, loose curls. Large, mahogany ram’s horns sprouted from the top of his head to curl about his ears. Maybe this was the… _being_ from the archway at the entrance? He had the world’s sharpest cheekbones, and a cleft chin and jowls covered in what could only be called artful stubble. Dressed like no one Quentin had ever seen, a broad, shimmering, scaled coat fell heavy around his shoulders and trailed almost down to the floor. It was complimented by burgundy pants and shoes that cost more than Quentin's best suit. The man wore no shirt underneath his coat, just a silky open waistcoat, and his chest was covered by a dusting of black hair and sparkling necklaces and charms.

Quentin couldn’t help it. His eyes followed that trail of hair down, down, down, past his ribs to his jutting hip bones to…fuck.

He forced his eyes back up, blushing crimson. Thankfully the man hadn’t noticed. He was frowning as the fairy kept talking in his ear. When she finally finished, he scoffed at her and shook his head, turning his gaze on Quentin. God, Quentin could get lost those eyes for days. They were a rich, prismatic hazel from every angle.

“Q.”

The letter, or word, or whatever it was, came out in a breathless, relieved rush. The man’s eyes shone, and he looked at him with such expectation that Quentin’s heart leapt into his throat. His own mouth was also hanging open. All he could manage was an uncertain shake of his head, deny the letter with an, “Uh uh,” and offer a _very_ clarifying, “Quentin.”

World’s worst introduction, but what else could he do? He’d never gone by “Q” in his life. He didn’t mind it; it just didn’t sound like him.

And because Quentin could _never_ communicate things properly, the man of course wasn’t dissuaded at all. A soft grin grew on his face, and he drew closer, stretching out a hand towards him. “It’s you. You’re here.”

Quentin took a step back, grabbing a fistful of his pajama shirt and fidgeting with it. “Um, who are you?”

“Okay, ha ha. I get it, Margo probably over did it,” said the man. “I told her I didn’t need these.” With a flick of his fingers, his dark horns popped out of existence. He glanced down at his clothes. “And fine, this is maybe a bit much, even for me. But she had a vision and I wasn’t going to get stabbed by Sorrow again trying to stop her. At least I’m not singing ‘dance, magic, dance.””

“Margo? Is that…” Quentin hesitantly pointed at the fairy.

“Yeah, I don’t know why Alice has to be Queen of the Sugar Plums. At least she found you. We thought Julia did but then we lost her, but then Alice said she’s with you?" He shrugged. "Good news is, we know how to get you home.”

_Okay, so the fairy was “Alice,” not Margo. And Julia knew these people? Wait, hold on…_

“Home?” he asked.

Nothing was making sense. It’s like they were having two entirely different conversations.

“Well, Fillory first. Probably somewhere else after that, I don’t fucking know, but one step at a time.”

“Wait, Fillory’s real?!”

The fairy started chittering again, but the man clenched his jaw and talked over her. “The sarcasm’s not cute, Q,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “but rest assured it’s still all there. Don’t know if you’re still one of its kings, with the whole deposed monarchs thing and then the election and then Fen’s coup – ”

“Holy fuck, I’m dreaming,” Quentin burst out, putting his palms to his temples. “Haaaa. Insects turning into people, leading me to a maze in the woods that has a hole in the middle with a – ” _(smoking hot)_ “guy who says I’m a king of Fillory and he’s taking me back there! Pbbbbbbb.” He blew air through his lips like a horse, smacking his cheeks a few times. “Next up, flying to the moon! I did that last week!”

He started looking around, expecting something else crazy to start happening.

Nothing else happened.

He frowned, turning back to the two by the fountain. The fairy looked like…she was about to cry. She’d balled her hand into a tiny fist and was biting her lip.

The man clenched his jaw, his nostrils flared. “You think that this is a dream? All of this?” He raked his eyes over Quentin from top to bottom while he gestured around them.

Quentin hesitated. The seriousness of this whole thing unnerved him. “After everything that’s happened to me so far?” he said, like it was obvious. But his confidence was already slipping.

The man blinked several times. His voice grew quiet. “No. I’m asking you, if you think that _just tonight_ is a dream? Or do you think this whole world-reality-land-thing you’re trapped in, is a dream?”

Quentin knew that calling tonight a dream was safe. Calling tonight a dream meant that the world was going to go back to normal when he woke up. Calling it a dream…meant that he could mentally survive however this night was going to end. Could save his heart from tomorrow's disappointment that none of this was real.

“The first one?” he hedged.

“Why?” the man said through gritted teeth.

Quentin pointed at Alice, “I mean, she was a bug but now she's a-a-a tiny magical creature with wings who just made you appear out of nowhere. An' it was night time, but now it looks like its daytime - ”

“No,” the man growled, overriding him. “You’re not dreaming, you hear me? I’m telling you that you’re just…stuck here, and we’ve figured out how to get you home, and I am about to ask you the mother of all important questions 'cause I reeeeally don’t want to have to believe what Alice has been saying to me, so answer it honestly.”

“Um, okay?”

“What was your son’s name?”

Quentin had never felt so baffled in his entire life.

"I don't have a son."

The man’s face crumpled. He turned one way, then the other, and then just collapsed on the lip of the fountain, putting his head in his hands. His necklaces jingled together as his chest heaved.

Quentin felt his heart shatter. Of course he ended up saying the entirely wrong thing. He should have just lied; offered a name like his father’s, or Rupert, or something. The last time he’d even remotely allowed himself to think about having a child was, like, a decade ago, but he’d always figured those were the names he’d’ve gone with. Anything would’ve been better than that catastrophe of an answer.

With measured steps, he went over to the fountain too. Alice was biting her lips, and she had awkwardly placed a hand on the man’s cheek. She looked up at Quentin for a moment, then looked away.

He reached out. “Sorry, I – I didn’t mean to – ”

The man raised his head as his hands fell away, his face dry. He pierced Quentin with his eyes again, stood up, and grasped him by the shoulders. He went to say something, then glanced at Alice. “Okay, fine,” he said, “we’re…figuring out the memory loss later. Still doesn’t change anything. Q, we can bring you back so long as your soul’s intact, and that hasn’t changed.”

“My soul’s intact?” Quentin repeated.

“Yeah. You’ve got some stuff to do, but when it’s all done you’re leaving this shithole of a reality and _never_ coming back. Sound good?”

Goosebumps erupted over his body.

 _Leaving._ That word again.

But the way this guy was looking at him…like he was the center of the universe? There wasn’t a trace of that…dismissive…malevolence his own mind always had. To him, Quentin was…valuable. For some reason, Quentin _mattered_ to him. He wasn’t trying to convince Quentin to end his own life. He meant leaving this place, the war, the Order, the captain. Being free of all this, because he wasn’t supposed to be here. And going to Fillory.

_Fillory!_

But what about…

“Can my mom come?”

“She’s not your mom. You grew up in New York." The man paused for a moment, as if he just realized he needed to choose his words carefully. "Your dad just passed away. I saw you try so _hard_ to save him. You even asked me to help you, once.” He swallowed, his thumb lightly rubbing against the cloth of Quentin’s shirt. “You’re a Brakebills-taught Magician. You got crowned a king of Fillory, surrounded by your best friends. You _saved_ Fillory from being destroyed. You saved your friends - your real family - more times...than we can count. Even if you don’t remember, there is still so much more waiting for you. Not here. This place doesn’t _need_ you.”

That last sentence by itself would have sounded cruel, but somehow the man made it entirely kind, and nakedly honest.  

“Are you sure?” Quentin whispered. It was like he was standing on a cliff. In his very center, there was this gravitational tug to tumble over the edge.

“Logic this with me,” the man said. His hands fell from Quentin’s shoulders to grasp his hands, squeezing tightly. “What’s the point of…such a _harsh_ world like this, if not to escape it?”

Quentin swallowed. After a long moment, he nodded.

The man exhaled, and he smiled.  

For a moment, Quentin was sure down to the marrow in his bones he would do anything to keep him smiling.

The man released his hands, twisting his own fingers like Alice had. Several stacks of the tiles in the fountain shifted on their own. They toppled as a large, thick book floated out from underneath them on its own. It glided over and hung suspended in the air. On its spine was “The Binder” in thick capital letters. The man raised an eyebrow, indicating Quentin should take it.

When he did, Alice flew over to an alcove in one of the stone walls, and she returned with a pouch the size of, well, her.  She handed this to Quentin, and the small solid lumps inside clanked together. She peeped and twittered at the man, who rolled his eyes and huffed a, “Fine,” at her before translating to Quentin, “Alice says that you should open _The Binder_ tomorrow, alone. It’s, well, _he’s_ , going to explain things as you go, so you can stay safe and not get ahead of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t – ”

“Trust, honey, you would,” the man said fondly. Alice continued speaking, so the man went on. “There’re three tasks, and they need to all get done by the next full moon because of Arbitrary Magical Deadline bullshit. Come right back here as soon as you finish _numero uno_.”

“Okay.” He tucked the book under his arm and closed the pouch into his fist. “Um, anything else?”

With a single humorless laugh, the man looked away. “I mean there’s a fuck-ton else, but apparently I can’t tell you about that or everything’s ruined, which is cosmically unfair.”

“Sorry,” Quentin said.

There was that smile again. It was cosmically unfair how gorgeous that smile looked on him.

“I can say – if I’m remembering where your brain is right now – ‘You are not alone here.’”

“Well, yeah – ”

“Not ‘right here right now.’” The man gently placed both of his hands around his neck, cupping his head. “I’ve just told you everything around you isn’t real, and now you have to go right back into it. You’ve just seen magic, but tomorrow morning comes with pretending to everyone else it doesn’t exist. Worse, you’re gonna have to deal with your own head over and over. Because it’s going to tell you that Alice and I don’t really exist and do everything to convince you you've finally lost it.”

Quentin’s breath hitched. As if his face being _that close_ wasn’t going to give him a brain aneurism, somehow the man could read him like a book. “H-h-how do you know?”

The man squeezed his eyes shut. He bit his lip, and the muscles along his arms visibly tensed. “Because I am Eliot Waugh, and I know who you are, Quentin Coldwater. So don’t…don’t go back there and be the old you. Because that’s not _you._ _You_ are not alone, you hear me?”

 _Eliot_. His name felt like a gift.

"Oh...okay," Quentin breathed.

Eliot slowly put his forehead on Quentin's. Even though his heart was hammering, and doubt was starting to crawl its way through his cracks already, he in turn placed his hands over Eliot’s, and squeezed to comfort him. They spent a moment just like that, breathing together, peace settling on both of them for the first time in ages, and Quentin felt his heart start to slow. And he he let himself just _be_  for this one brief moment.

Alice drew close to them. She allowed herself the first happy smile he’d seen from her all night, and she wiped away a few tears trickling down her face. Quentin smiled at her, and she flew in to perch on his shoulder. After a moment, Eliot and Quentin let go of each other at the same time, and Eliot couldn’t hide the reluctance from his face as he began to back away. Even though he still had a million questions, Quentin found himself wishing he could just leave everything and run away with Alice and Eliot right now, quest be damned.

Alice nodded at Eliot, and she began her silent spell to draw the shadows back around them. Eliot was swallowed by the darkness, but Quentin could still make out the fountain and its empty dais.

He told himself over and over that he was coming back.

As Alice tugged on his ear, and he forced himself to climb up the stone steps, he briefly wondered if he’d ever get to put all the pieces of the puzzle together before this was all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Bowie lyric as the chapter title, whoop whoop. Go listen to half of the songs David Bowie sings in Labyrinth and tell me you don't think of Queliot. I know Pan's Lab and Labyrinth are two completely separate things with different themes and cinematography and yada yada, but if Eliot is my Faun, he can have a bit of Jareth in him too, damnit. There's just (*clenches fist*) something about immortal beings luring innocent souls into their magical worlds and inviting them to spend eternity there, you feel me? 
> 
> (Feck, I did NOT need another AU idea of Eliot as Jareth...wELP, might have to write that one when this one's finished!)


	6. Interlude I: The Wrong Turns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm switching perspectives and formats for a bit here, so people can get a sense of what's going on behind the scenes of Q's rescue.

 

* * *

 

Stenographic Record #DDG642.9973 of O.N.L. Conference Room 957

Conference Room Requester: Librarian Alice Quinn, Timeline 40

Local Date and Time for Occupants: XX/XX/XXXX, Timeline 40, 10:49am EST

 

* * *

 

 

Stenographic Record Begins:

 

[Librarian Alice Quinn (hereafter AQ) and Eliot Waugh (hereafter EW) enter Conference Room 957 through means of [Unregistered Magic Formula]]

[sound of chair legs scraping the floor]

Margo Hanson (hereafter MH): Jesus fuck, I was starting to get wrinkles.

[AQ performs Volosyk’s Trans-Creature Transformation Reversal, returning to human shape]

MH: Alright, spill.

William “Penny” Adiyodi, Timeline 23 (hereafter PA23): You find her?

EW: Alice’ll fill you in. Eliot needs a shower and about five bottles of tequila.

AQ: Wait –

MH: If I see that outfit on the floor, I’m gonna make you clean it with your own spit and a toothbrush.

EW: Noted.

[EW exits Conference Room 957]

MH: Okay, why’s he flipping out?

AQ: It’s not that bad. Quentin has _The Binder_ [1] and the buttons. He starts on the first part tomorrow. Julia’s… She’s with him.

Kady Orloff-Diaz (hereafter KOD): With him? She’s gonna help him?

AQ: I don’t know. I didn’t speak with her.

PA23: Why not?

AQ: There’re a few signs that she’s, um…

[13 seconds of silence]

PA23: You gonna say somethin’ or just go mute for the rest of the day?

AQ: Look, I don’t know how, but she’s gotten involved. With stuff going on in there. Quentin too.

MH: Lemme guess, they’re pulling some stupid hero shit and trying to save some cannon fodder.

AQ: More like…gone native.

PA23: What’s that mean?

AQ: Honestly I’m not sure. The Binder filled us in a little when we got there. He said Julia didn’t have any problems building the labyrinth, and then she got hired at this lodge nearby, and she even found Quentin.

MH: ‘Kay, so what went fuck up?

AQ: The fountain didn’t look like her sketches. The design’s changed. And the Binder was _in_ the fountain when we got there. The fountain’s dry.

KOD: She put a tiny Siphon in it; it literally can’t run dry.

AQ: Well, it did. The Siphon’s intact, but it’s not receiving anything.

KOD: [brief pause] Guess that explains why we lost contact.

AQ: When we got there, a lot of the magic she was going to use to get him out was already in place. I just had to jump start it, like a car. The species of fae I change into radiates some ambient magic all on its own. The day after, Q even touched one of the spells and suddenly I knew where he was, so I disguised myself and –

MH: Still not hearing what’s got Eliot making a beeline for –

AQ: Quentin’s…um. He doesn’t remember who he is. And I’m not sure Julia does either. Or –

[simultaneously, MH and PA23 let out several questioning, overlapping expletives for 4 minutes and 18 seconds]

AQ: Okay, just, just shut up for a second! Julia wrote that magic doesn’t quite work for humans there.  There’s something in its design, its make-up, that doesn’t let it.  It’s why I have to use Volosyk’s Trans-Creature. It's why she needed a Siphon. So that also might be what’s changed them. Or, changed Quentin and is changing Julia.

KOD: But you guys seem fine.

MH: ‘Cause they’re not dead.

PA23: Neither is Julia.

MH: Does it have anything to do with that memory-loss-fake-identity shit Fogg dosed us with?

AQ: The Circumstances for that are all about projecting something off the individual – a new face, new memories, protective shielding. Quentin and Julia don’t have anything like that on them. Quentin still knew his name. He loved Fillory just as much as he normally does.

KOD: Maybe it’s about…long term exposure? They’ve been down there too long?

AQ: No way to test that without spending more time there.

MH: ‘Cept that’s the opposite of what we want. ’S not like we can do for Julia what we're doing for Q.

PA23: Which is why we gotta bring her back. Why didn’t you just bring her back?

AQ: I almost did. I had Quentin almost inside and Julia was following, but then she convinced him to turn around. And then later that night she ran off into the woods. I had to lead Quentin inside without her.

KOD: How much Dragon’s Breath[2]’d you use?

AQ: We have some left. Eliot had just enough time to give him what he needed. I had to get Quentin back outside, and then we had to come back. The Binder left a page of, um, himself with us, so at least we’ll know when he’s finished the first part. But we’ll definitely need more.

KOD: [muffled] It’d be easier to just get Julia’s fountain working again.

MH: We’ll figure that part out. My guess’s either someone cut her off or sippin’ the Kool Aid made her sabotage herself somehow. Penny, hand me those last five pages there.

PA23: You got two legs and a heartbeat, come get ‘em yourself.

MH: I look like the kinda person whose gonna pry them out from under your scabby elbows? I have to go make sure El doesn’t pickle his organs. Alice, fetch.

AQ: What do you need them for?

MH: She actually made herself a fuckin’ Works Cited page, of all the sad nerdy things. Can’t hurt to track down some of her sources. Academia is one giant circle jerk – sources have sources.

KOD: Someone must’ve known enough about what she was working on to point her in the right direction.

MH: Too many right directions. Something don’t smell right, and it’s not all the Dragon’s Breath El’s been smoking. Anybody coming, or do I have to do everything myself?

AQ: I’ll go.

MH: Then _vamanos_. This nerd language ain’t gonna speak itself.

KOD: This place got anything resembling decent coffee?

MH: I could live off of it. I hate every sip I take.

[KOD, MH, and AQ exit Conference Room 957]

[sound of PA23 shuffling papers]

[nothing occurs for 8 minutes 39 seconds]

[EW enters Conference Room 957]

EW: Shit.

PA23: Why are you still in that?

EW: Oh no. You’ve seen through my clever ruse of taking a shower. Whatever will I do.

[9 seconds of silence]

PA23: No tequila?

EW: Monster detox. Does wonders for my love handles.

[14 seconds of silence]

PA23: I’m not going anywhere.

EW: Fine. Point me in the direction of the _Binder_ page Alice set down earlier and I’ll be on my way.

PA23: Nothing’s gonna happen for a while. I’ll let you know if I see anything.

EW: Hogging it for yourself?

PA23: Holding the page’s not gonna make time go faster. Do us all a favor; go get in somethin' less slutty.

EW: I don’t think I’m allowed. It took seven weavers weaving all twelve days of Christmas to get the pattern right.

PA23: At least button something.

EW: Kill this Goblin King vibe I’ve got going on? Please. David Bowie’s ghost would disown me.

[25 seconds of silence]

PA23: So tell me what really happened in there.

EW: Alice didn’t say?

PA23: She said some stuff, but what’s with the memory loss?

EW: It’s not lost. It’s just…not there.

PA23: How’d you know it’s not, like, _gone_ gone?

EW: [brief pause] ‘Cause he’s still the same. Mostly.

PA23: Yeah, but is it _him_?

EW: Alice was the one who saw Julia, not me. Go stick your subtext somewhere else.

PA23: What, like you wouldn’t try to ask if you were me? Might wanna consider who’s already been through the suckfest of meeting another version of somebody you thought was dead.

EW: Oh, so, Kady?

PA23: I’m just trying to help ever–

EW: Like you helped Julia decide if she should have god mojo or not?

PA23: Like you helped release the fuckin’ Monster to save him?!

EW: Gee, never hated myself for that one before!

PA23: Then fuckin' _use_ it. Quit lashing out at everyone just ‘cause you think you don’t deserve a little empathy, and. Do. _More_. For him. Someone or something out there decided you get a second chance.

EW: [gives a humorless laugh] No they didn’t. You know how I know? [brief pause] We went to Plover’s house, once, for a button to Fillory. It was a regular _The Orphanage_ [3] in there, and Alice kept begging us to go back in and save some ghost kids. And like any good, reassuring friend, I said to her, “Life ain’t fair,” and then followed that up with…yeah I think I said something like, “Why in the high, holy fuck should death be any different?” I said it was an act of ego, thinking we could do something for them.

PA23: He’s not a ghost.

EW: Might as well be. I’ve seen ghost loops, and it’s like he’s looped back to who he was before Brakebills. I mean, I went down there, I touched him, but…we don’t even know if he has a body. You said the blast of his magic… _obliterated_ him…when he…

PA23: Julia went diving headfirst in there ‘cause she thought it was worth a shot.

EW: And then the black cat crossed her path while she was walking under a ladder made of broken mirrors. The _second_ something goes right, the scales wildly swing in the opposite direction. Get an inch, lose a mile. Every. Fucking. Time. I’m sick of it.

PA23: If things keep going wrong, how come you’re still here? How come you haven’t taken a handful of your favorite pills yet?

EW: What? When all the pretty pamphlets say there’s a million reasons to keep going?

[22 seconds of silence]

[sounds of EW inhaling and exhaling deeply]

EW: I woke up, and he was gone, and for all intents and purposes I’d killed him. [brief pause] Huh. How refreshing. Someone who agrees with me. [brief pause] I thought about…ending it. I mean, who hasn’t, right? Hell, you probably did, when you lost Julia the first time. I was…willing to risk the chance of us not winding up together in the Underworld…on the off-chance we would. That I would find him down there. People told me he didn’t die just so I could die right after him. People told me every other word out of his mouth was about whether something would save me or not. “He saved all our lives; we can’t just not live them.” [brief pause] Even so, the right thing to do is always so _quiet_. The temptation to do the wrong thing is usually ten times louder.

[12 seconds of silence]

PA23: Okay, but you _thought_ that. What are you thinking now?

[17 seconds of silence]

EW: I saw him again. Just like I wanted. I held him, and even though he didn’t know me, he was willing to give this whole thing a shot. [brief pause] That was enough to get you hopping timelines and doing anything for her, right? [brief pause] Julia’s gonna be fine.

PA23: I know.

EW: Do you?

PA23: I mean, I got plenty to worry about. She only got into all this thanks to me. We haven't exactly been good since I took her god powers away. But, accident or not, wildly swinging scales or not, second chances are second chances. You gotta take ‘em and let ‘em work out. Things get too empty if you don’t.

[KOD enters Conference Room 957]

[sound of Conference Room 957 doors slamming into the walls. Damage to the walls to be taken out of AQ’s stipend for repairs]

PA23: ‘Sup? [sound of clothing ruffling] Hey, get off me!

KOD: Are you our Penny?!

PA23: What?!

KOD: Are you!

PA23: Why the fuck –

KOD: Then explain this!

[sound of paper crinkling]

[6 seconds of silence]

EW: So I think I’ll just go –

[MH and AQ enter Conference Room 957]

MH: El, we found a plot twist, and it ain’t the kind properly foreshadowed over six seasons.

EW: Is that why I’m hearing the _Kill Bill_ soundtrack over there?

AQ: We checked, and all fifteen of the first books on Julia’s Works Cited were from the Underworld branch.

EW: And interlibrary loans get Kady ready to cut a bitch because...

MH: That paper says _our_ Penny sent ‘em up. Julia didn’t find or request them; he sent ‘em to her before she even started checking books out.

EW: He…knew what she needed to read, before she did?

KOD: Did you?

PA23: Fuck off, I’m me, okay?!

EW: Down girl. If he wasn’t, he would’ve hid his tracks a lot better.

MH: We’re saying he’s him ‘cause he’s a dumbass?

AQ: The Penny from our timeline’s presumably read all our books. He definitely sent the Underworld books up to Julia, and he didn’t erase his queries. If he didn’t want us to know, he would have deleted them. Or used a proxy.

KOD: [deeply exhales] If you aren’t him… that means he’s getting involved in stuff up here. Last last time he got involved, he decided to play a fucked-up game of telephone and made you the delivery boy.

EW: Hhhhow do we know our books don’t say he’s supposed to get involved?

AQ: The Underworld branch doesn’t do that. They never do that.

PA23: You gonna let go of me now?

[sounds of clothes ruffling]

PA23: Look, when I ran into him, he said that this wasn’t his timeline anymore. He believed that, ‘hundred percent. My guess's something’s changed his mind.

MH: I’m ready to go play Penny Pitch[4] if you are.

AQ: Should we really go talk to him? What if that’s all he could do?

MH: Uh uh. You don’t just give Julia the keys to the Resurrecting Quentin castle and then skip back off to your book shelving cart.

KOD: You guys go. The next batch of Dragon’s Breath’s not gonna make itself.

AQ: Don’t you want to come with us?

KOD: [brief pause] No. I don't.

MH: El, as much as I want you to keep wearing my masterpiece, it’s probably better for you to go get changed.

EW: I was, I was just…

PA23: He’s gonna keep an eye on the _Binder_ page while we go.

EW: Oh. Um, yeah. That. Thanks.

PA23: You’re welcome.

AQ: Oh. Okay. Then, I guess, see if you can dig through Julia’s notes some more.

EW: Um, I wasn’t classically trained in Hedge witch improv.

AQ: Kady can –

KOD: Sorry, I can’t decipher and brew at the same time.

[KOD exits Conference Room 957]

AQ: Well, okay, so, try to find anything that’s…Well, there has to be a reason for the fountain changing. We can’t figure out what happened to the Siphon for now. But the design of the fountain itself shouldn’t have changed. It’s like an equation changing its own equal sign; the meaning of everything after it changes.

MH: And keep an eye out for how to get his memory back. Alright, someone else’s got to toke up for this trip. I want my lungs in prime condition in case I need to put the fear of me into this bitch.

AQ: Eliot, I need the –

EW: Right.

[sound of Dragon’s Breath dose being handed to AQ]

MH: Eliot, I give you executive permission to go back down there with the last dose in case Quentin gets ahead of himself.

AQ: What?

EW: You sure?

AQ: But –

MH: End. Of. Discussion. Pack the bowl, Alice.

[AQ inhales the Dragon Breath dose and uses it on MH, PA23, and herself]

[MH, PA23, and AQ exit Conference Room 957 through means of [Unregistered Magic Formula]]

EW: [muttering] Equal sign in the equation…equal sign…equal sign…

[39 seconds of silence and papers being moved on the conference room table]

EW: Did you tell her? Is that why it’s there?

[51 seconds of silence and moving papers]

EW: Shit. You didn’t, did you. Shit shit shit shit.

[sound of EW picking up a paper]

[EW exits Conference Room 957]

 

Stenographic Record Ends

 

* * *

 

Footnote 1: Librarian [REDACTED] spelled into book form by deceased Librarians Iris, Bacchus, Enyalius, and Heka for his research on gods.

Footnote 2: The group’s colloquialism for a synthetic way to traverse realms of the Underworld, akin to the natural ability of certain species of River Dragons. KOD developed the formula with several Hedge witches and has not yet been convinced to provide a copy to the Library. It appears to involve an inhalation of the spell and then exhaling upon the intended travelers, including oneself if needed.

Footnote 3: _El Orfanato_ , 2007, directed by J. A. Bayona.

Footnote 4: An ancient game which involves players taking turns tossing a coin against a wall.

* * *

 


	7. The Garden Path, Interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the tags on this work might be giving people whiplash. It's like the "side effects may include" warning for medication, lol. Guess that's what happens when you make the tags as you go. In the meantime, here's a nice long chapter for you. Because when characters start talking to you, you listen.
> 
> Another round of infinite thank yous for the kudos and comments. They got me through some tough times this week.

Quentin didn’t trust himself to sleep. When he’d returned to Jane's room, one look at his bed was nearly enough to drown out Eliot’s comforting words. His eyes burned and his head buzzed with static, but the second he imagined waking up to find _The Binder_ and the pouch had disappeared, that the whole night was a dream after all…the only thing to do was push through 'til morning.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to explain away a new book, he hid it in the gap behind the radiator in the large bathroom. There wasn’t going to be any proper light to read it for several hours anyway.

He risked a look at the contents of the pouch, but had no idea what he’d end up doing with three ordinary white buttons. _The Wandering Dune_ mentioned Helen Chatwin hiding buttons from her sister – buttons they’d been given by the rabbit pirates to let them to travel to Fillory any time. It made no sense for Alice to hand him those same buttons before he’d even started. If things were that easy, Alice and Eliot would’ve used them already.

Each one was in a tiny gold case. Before he could pry a lid open and look at one up close, Jane groaned and shifted onto her other side. He jumped, clutching the cases to his chest, and only dared to breathe when she didn’t move again for several minutes. With a sigh, he popped them back into the pouch, cinched it shut, and stuffed it back into his pocket.

He remembered Eliot’s soft _Trust, honey, you would_ , and licked his lips. Yeah, peaking ahead in the story might not be the best choice. There’d be a chance to sneak away and get started on the quest tomorrow. Or, well, later today.

His heart lurched. He had a quest. A motherfucking quest _._ Given to him by the most bewildering, captivating man he’d ever met. Who, for all appearances, knew him better than he knew himself.

So.

He was Quentin Coldwater. But, not.

He was not a teacher, but a king. He was not a civilian under the iron grip of the Order, but a savior. And a _magician._

On top of it all, everything around him, from the ashes in the fireplace to his own freaking mother across the room, wasn't real. He’d never belonged here. His real life, whatever that was, waited for him after the next full moon.

If he did everything right.

And maybe if he kept repeating all that over and over, it’d stop the doubt from settling.

As the sun rose, he waited for some kind of existential crisis to crash in. Any minute, he could be hit with one of his mental shutdowns, rendering him useless for the rest of the day. What centered him, whenever he felt everything slipping, was the memory of Eliot’s hands.

His soft curls brushing his cheek as their foreheads pressed together.

His rare and precious smile.

He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to treasure them. He and Eliot had just met each other. Or had they? Who was ‘Quentin Coldwater’ to Eliot Waugh?

Were those brief moments of…of _intimacy_ for him, or just for the person he was supposed to be? Eliot hadn’t hesitated to hold him, to trail his thumb along Quentin’s collar bone, to take his hands in his and spread warmth throughout his whole body.

And somehow, he had responded in kind, like he’d always known how.

But there had been questions about a son. Assertions that he was needed.

Those were both alien concepts to him.

But Eliot did believe in him. There had never been a hint of doubt in his face, even after he realized that Quentin wasn’t the same person.  Whoever he was supposed to be, whoever he was now, Eliot believed in him.

He could get lost in that, at least.

Once his mother roused herself, he couldn’t let himself think on it for too long. She smiled as she stretched, like the night before never happened. Before he could say anything more than “Good morning,” and “How are you feeling,” Silver swept into the room to bathe and dress her. Julia and Gummidgy trailed behind with buckets of steaming water between them to fill the tub. To do at least something to help, he doled out some of Doctor Fogg’s vitamins as Silver helped Jane into a lavender dress and a matching shawl after toweling her off.

Silver looked to be in her late seventies, but she had the twinkling eyes and the appetite for gossip of someone at least fifty years younger. Gummidgy was in his thirties, blind in one eye, and swore he could see everyone’s auras were a healthy teal-blue this morning. They both chatted with Julia with the easy air of people who’d known her for years.

Eliot'd mentioned Julia “finding” him, so she must know something about it all, Quentin thought. But if she was from the labyrinth, why didn’t she want to go in there with him when they first got here? Quentin tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t spare him more than a few passing glances, ducking out of the room right as Gummidgy delivered the gut-wrenching news that the captain was planning a celebratory dinner tonight. The McAllisters were on the guest list, Silver confirmed with a sniff, and Irene McAllister would no doubt be fishing for any chance to climb the Order’s ranks.

Jane’s eyes lit up as she settled herself down into the wheelchair. “Quentin, this is wonderful!”

“Why?” he asked, using a yawn to hide his unease. Trapped in a room full of Order fanatics, making conversation with them, the captain and his mother eyeing his every move…not good. Definitely not good.

“Go to the third drawer down. It’s your surprise!” she said.

He went over to the drawer and opened it. His breath caught in his throat. What he pulled out wasn’t just any suit. He ran his hands over the lapels of the black jacket, rubbed the silky forest-green necktie between his fingers, measured the trousers against his waist. Memories flowed over him, sliding the jacket over his tiny shoulders, the tails dragging on the ground as it dwarfed him, and hoisting the pants up over his hips. He’d grabbed this suit down from his father’s closet so many times, thinking it was a cloak, speeding around the apartment as a pirate wizard writer.

His mother had always told him to take it off; he’d get it dirty and wrinkled, and his father needed it for work. Dad always said he could have it for five more minutes.

Now it was a present for him to wear, a piece of his father to carry with him. It might not be tailored to fit, but that didn’t matter. Just last night, he’d wished for some kind of armor, hadn’t he?

“He would want you to have it, darling,” Jane said, seeing him rendered speechless. She rubbed her stomach, soothing his sibling as they shifted. “It’s the perfect thing to wear tonight.”

Why wasn’t he smiling? He should be smiling. He should be thanking her, shouting his happiness, kissing her on the cheek, rushing to put it on so he could meet the captain’s acquaintances with pride.

The panic enveloping him instead was probably all over his face. He jogged over to the bathroom, calling back to Jane that he’d try it on in a shrill voice. He shut and locked the doors behind him, leaning against them. He took a deep breath, and looked down at the green tie.

If he wasn’t Quentin Coldwater, was this even his father’s? Was the patient face in his memories a lie? He was supposed to put on the suit of a dead man who may have never existed at all. The threads rubbed along the pads of his fingers. How could he trust how familiar that felt? He knew this coat; he knew its angles and its edges. But what if he’d actually never worn it before?

Shit. Here it was. It was happening. His exhaustion was turning everything up into hyperfocus, and he wanted so badly to just fall asleep right here on the floor. His heart hammered in his chest, like he was mid-marathon with no finish line in sight.

_Shit, stay calm. Breathe. Stop pulling your hair out of your scalp and just focus on things right in front of you. You won’t be able to function if you – Stop, shove it away, shove it down, stay awake, there’s no time no timenotimetnotime –_

The book. The book was behind the radiator. And he was technically alone.

He dropped the suit on the floor and went over to it, kneeling down and delving into the crevice. He yanked _The Binder_ out and pried it open.

All the pages were blank. He flipped a few sheets back and forth, blinking to clear the burn from his eyes. But the center, the end, the beginning; there was no sign of writing anywhere. Seconds from screaming, he quelled the urge into a whimper as dark ink suddenly trailed across the white spaces. Artistic calligraphy stretched across the margins. The words looked too perfect to be done by hand, but they were too stylized to come from a press.

An illustration began to take shape on the right-hand page: a great old tree, with tunnels branching beneath its roots and…was that a clock in its trunk? The picture seemed to compliment the text. It was some kind of narrative, starting with –   

There was the squeak of the wheelchair outside the door, and a rapping knock.

“Quentin,” Jane’s voice called, “come out and show me how you look.”

He slammed the book shut, wincing at the echo. “Yeah, um. Be right out. Button’s caught.”

“I’ll tie your tie for you,” she offered.

Jesus, he had to get out of here. He’d find Julia, ask her to show him around like she’d promised, and then the second they were out of earshot he was going to get some answers. If it turned out she wasn’t the Julia that Eliot and Alice’d been working with, fine. But if she was, then she was the only person that Quentin could trust in this nightmare.

He beat back his craving for sleep with a mental two-by-four, yawned again, and stood up. There was only one way to make it through this. He was going to divide himself in two: one who believed in the “truths” of this world, and one who knew them to be lies. He would remember to forget, and remember to remember. Or something like that. God, he was so fucking tired.

But hope is a rather irresistible motivator, isn’t it?

So.

He was Quentin Coldwater. But, not.

And Quentin Coldwater, no matter which version, could handle putting on his father’s suit, going out to be inspected by his mother, and even dining in a nest of vipers tonight. His track record for making it through a day alive was perfect so far. He wasn’t about to screw that up.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, finding Julia was easier than expected. He’d ducked out of the bedroom some time later to hunt down a quick breakfast, and found her in the kitchen. The captain had given her a few young rabbits to put in a stew. The dish was to be featured in tonight’s dinner, he’d instructed. She was on her way out the back door to dig up some carrots and turnips in the garden outside. She enthusiastically welcomed him along after handing him a bowl of scrambled eggs and sausage.

Spooning the eggs into his mouth, he slung a large basket under his arm and then followed her out into the sunlight. The soldiers in the clearing seemed a little less frenzied in their activities today. Some of them lounged around in small chairs outside their tents, shaving or shining their boots. Others drifted by in twos and threes, chatting about the weather and debating the chance of rain later. In the distance, birds called out to each other in the safety of the trees. Chickens wandered around in the open, while cows shifted in their pens.

He ate as he walked, not really looking where they were headed ‘til he almost ran into Julia in front of the garden gate. She gave him a wry look and pulled the basket out from under his arm. A smile tugged at his mouth around the food.

Whether it was just the kind of person she was, or whether it had something to do with his other life, being around Julia made him feel at ease. If she was from the same place as Eliot and Alice, maybe he was friends with her there, too. He was almost sure of it. She often looked at him like he was in on the joke, whatever it was; like she wanted to share a laugh with him or get his opinion on things whenever possible.

He started to follow her in to the garden, nudging a sausage link into his mouth, until she held out her hand.

“Easy, Q, don’t want to soil those new clothes you just got."

She called him Q. That had to mean something.

He lowered his breakfast, wiping his chin. “Right.”

Julia continued deeper into the garden, grabbing a trowel and kneeling by some large green stalks. Deep earthy smells wafted over from every direction.

“Hey, Julia?”

She tugged on a stubborn root, prying into the earth with her fingers. “Yeah?”

And suddenly he had no idea how to have this conversation. There really was no sane way to go about it. He supposed he could always start simple and work his way down.

“Do you believe in fairies?”

With zero sleep under his belt, things only felt like a bad idea in hindsight.

She raised her head, frowning at him. After several seconds to check and make sure he was serious, she said, “No. I guess I used to, when I was little.”

She looked back down at the vegetables she was pulling out of the ground. One of the roots wasn’t budging. Out of a fold in her apron, she took out a small paring knife, slicing through the root in one jerk.

Maybe he just had to be straightforward about it. “So if I, um, I said Alice visited me last night, would you...know who I was talking about?” Quentin asked, keeping his voice low.

“Who’s Alice?”

“Blonde, glasses, um, literally petite – ”

Julia snickered, nestling the turnips into her basket. “Sounds like a good dream.” She folded the paring knife back into her apron and moved to another section.

 “It wasn’t. I haven’t slept since yesterday.” God, this was not going well. “She took me to meet Eliot?” he tried again.

She wiped her forehead. “Um…okay?”

“Black hair, lanky, taller than both of us? He had horns on his head. Er, well, ‘til he made them disappear.”

She set the basket down, standing and brushing her knees off. “Horns? On his head? What, like a ram?” She bit back a laugh. “Or little pointy ones like a goat?”

“Ram ones, yeah.”

“Any hooves?”

He shook his head.

Julia crossed her arms, and crossed back over to him. Several moments passed while she appeared to give all this some thought. Quentin prayed they were finally getting somewhere.

Finally, she asked, “You sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“I swear on my mom’s life.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized it. If Jane wasn’t real, did he have any right to swear on her life at all? He winced, and started to come up with a way to take it back. There had to be some way to convince -

“Julia!” a voice called from a distance.

Both Quentin and Julia froze. It was Reynard.

They turned their heads to see him marching over, a thin woman trailing behind him. Her hair was gathered into a perfect bun, while her spectacles hung on her nose supported by an eyeglass chain around her neck. She held both hands up in the air, her fingers curled into loose fists, like the entire world was a delicate, breakable thing. The Order’s insignia was sewn onto both shoulders, and on her chest pocket over her heart. A Librarian.

Reynard stopped on the other side of the fence, not bothering to even glance in Quentin’s direction. “Zelda’s here to deliver the ration cards, and take inventory of the supplies we’ve requisitioned.”

“Good afternoon to you both,” Zelda said, bowing her head and dipping into a small curtsy.

Quentin’s stomach rolled. Was she to be one of the guests at dinner tonight? She was so…kind. “Librarians” and “kind” never belonged in the same sentence.

He opened his mouth to return the greeting, but Reynard spoke first, still looking at Julia.

“We’ll be trusting you with some Order business today. Care to join us?”

“We’ll explain everything on the way,” Zelda said, smiling. “Captain Reynard says you have the only copy of the key to the store room, so we came to find you.”

Julia carefully curtsied much lower than Zelda’s. “I’d be honored to help.” She left the basket on the ground as she made her way around Quentin. She didn’t look at him, but placed a soft, apologetic hand on his arm before she left. They both knew they were being watched.

Reynard turned and led the two women back towards the other side of the lodge. Zelda struck up a conversation with Julia as they left Quentin behind, but he couldn’t hear what was said. At least Reynard wasn’t paying him any attention. Hopefully, that was a sign that he didn’t think Quentin worth watching in the first place. There was a kind of safety in that.

Damnit. Unnoticed or not, he had no way of knowing what Julia’d been about to say. All he had to go on was when she’d called him by a nickname – one that anybody off the street could make up if they wanted. She’d humored him and asked questions, but nothing she said came close to admitting to what he was really asking.

Was he going to get another chance? The Order bringing ration cards to the lodge meant things were going to get very busy today. Everyone within 50 miles of the forest would be flocking here to get supplies. The whole clearing was about to swarm with people for the rest of the day. If she was helping with all that, it’d probably last all the way up until dinner. He could find her again, after. But there was no way he could just pick up right where they’d left off.

Was he really going to have to do this alone? His eyes raked over every tree, every branch, every tent, every sand bag and fence and piece of artillery. No sign of Alice. Either in her insect form, or her fairy one. None of the soldiers had Eliot’s build or his hair, either, so it wasn’t like he was in disguise among them.

( _That was a thought. Eliot in a soldier’s outfit…)_

He shoved the image away, swallowing. He wasn’t allowed to think of Eliot like that ( _was he?_ ).

Clearly his brain was just…trying to find more distractions to keep the doubt at bay.

Another huge yawn forced its way out. He couldn’t keep standing around; he really would end up just finding a seat somewhere and dozing off if he wasn’t careful.

Well…he could always go get _The Binder_ again. Jane would probably be on the lower floors by now, organizing the seating or the place settings for tonight. The bedroom would be empty.

But what if someone walked in looking for something? If he really thought about it, none of the rooms were safe.

Did that leave…the forest? He peered through the trees. They were spread far enough apart from each other to provide a clear line of site for a few miles, but not much beyond that. Was it worth the risk of running into a band of Hedges?

And the thought whispered through his head: _yes._

Magic.

Friends.

( _A son?)_

A whole life.

The quest wouldn’t wait for him.

Ten minutes later, after some careful tip-toeing, he was back outside, buttons in his pocket and book under his arm.

There was some commotion on the far end as he crossed the clearing. A platoon of men were mounting up onto horses, galloping off on a wide dirt road uphill into the trees. They must've seen something on the mountain side, like movement in the woods, or a campfire someone forgot to put out.  If there were any Hedges out there, they might go into hiding if they heard the pounding of hooves. After checking that he wasn’t watched, he hiked into the trees in the opposite direction of the hunting party.

Everything became fantastically quiet about a mile away. There were a few perfect clouds in the sky, hovering on the edges of the horizon like seagulls over an open ocean. The wind from yesterday was back too, bringing the clouds closer, an inch a minute, and wafting the mountain air over his face.

He loosened the green tie around his neck, then unbuttoned the cuffs on his undershirt. Changing out of the suit hadn’t exactly been an option. If Jane saw it on the bed or back in the drawer, not only would it hurt her feelings, but she’d also try to find him for an explanation. As long as he was careful out here, he’d return to the lodge with her none the wiser.

 _The Binder_ creaked as he took it from under his arm and opened it. The writing from earlier raced to reform on the left and the illustration coloring itself in on the right. It was a clock tree after all, he was eager to see, just like one of the Watcherwoman’s creations. With a massive trunk and towering, barren branches, he almost missed the little human figure climbing into a large opening at the base of its roots.

Turning his eyes to the left, he began to read:

 ** _Quentin Coldwater opened The Binder_ , _his eyes drawn to the picture instead of the carefully handwritten words that’d give him the information he was_** actually ** _looking for. Finally, he turned his head to start reading._**

Quentin blinked, rereading the words. His eyes moved to the next sentence.

**_Quentin blinked, rereading the words._ **

What…the….

**_The Binder waited for Quentin to realize The Binder was, in fact, narrating everything. The Binder advised Quentin to stop thinking for two seconds so The Binder could finish, without having to stop to record his thoughts all the time._ **

**Holy shit, _Quentin thought,_ it really is--                                                 ** _Holy shit, it really is–_

**_The Binder would drum his fingers in impatient irritation if he actually had fingers._ **

**_“Jeez, sorry, gimme a second” Quentin said._** “Jeez, sorry, gimme a second” Quentin said.

**_The Binder asked Quentin if he was done._ **

**_“Uh, I, yeah, okay,” Quentin replied, thinking that he’d_** “Uh, I, yeah, okay.”  
**_never met a sassier book in his entire life._**

**_The Binder decided to take that as a compliment, before proceeding._ **

**_He advised Quentin that, long ago, the gods Ember and Umber gave birth to the vast land of Fillory, filling it with creatures full of magic and wonder. Talking animals shared the land with fairies and humans, and even the occasional Child of Earth. Many noble quests unfolded beneath the shade of colossal clock trees that dotted the landscape. One of these clock trees appeared before Quentin now, growing on a hill not far off._ **

Quentin raised his eyes, pushing his bangs out of his face, and sharply inhaled as he saw _The Binder_ was right. Not ten feet away, a clock with broken hands pushed out from the center of a tree almost as tall as the mill. No leaves fluttered in the breeze overhead; the boughs had long ago dried up, the bark twisting into gnarled shapes. He wondered if it was dead.

The pages of the book fluttered, pulling his attention back down.

**_A certain monstrous glutton had settled in this clock tree’s roots, feeding on its strength, banished from Fillory by a Shadeless creature of even greater greed._ **

**_Force the buttons into the glutton’s mouth, the Binder instructed, and take the golden keys from its body. Only then will the first part of Reconstruction be complete._ **

The writing ended there. Quentin flipped a few pages to see if there was more, but the book seemed to think its obligation was over.

Shadeless? It was capitalized. Did it mean, like, his Shades back in the city?

He pulled the pouch out of his pocket and dumped the three button cases into his hand. He rolled them around like dice about to be tossed onto a gambling table. He started palming them, making one disappear in one hand and reappear in his pocket, as he mulled everything all over.

What kind of creature could be beaten by making it eat _buttons_? Some kind of mole, or a giant worm, or a toad, or a snake maybe? What’d it do to earn banishment? Were the buttons supposed to choke it, or were they coated in some kind of poison, or made of something that’d explode when swallowed?

The little figure in the picture was duplicated beneath the roots of the tree crawling on all fours deeper into the ground. There weren’t any hints in the drawing about what lay at the end of the tunnels.

To be honest…there really was nothing else for it, either. He was stalling. He closed _The Binder_ and approached the tree.

The ground grew muddier as he got closer, until his shoes were covered from toe to heel by an inch of slime and grit. The thick mud continued down beneath the tree, of course.

He couldn’t go in there dressed like this. He just couldn’t. A part of him, real or not, couldn’t fathom the idea of ruining the suit. The feeling of it being his father’s – his _father’s –_ was unshakable. No matter which version of himself was real, he could never be someone who could just dismiss that kind of feeling. What kind of person would he be, if he just callously ignored something so important. It didn’t matter if it was real.

He looked down at himself, his mind looping in a series of “ _no no no, really, come on, this can’t be, am I really gonna…_ ”s, until he just ignored himself and started shucking off his clothes.

Some of the clock trees branches hung low, jutting out into the air. On them, he hung his trousers, shirt, jacket, and tie. He put his shoes and socks down on the ground, and found a nook in the tree’s huge trunk to nestle _The Binder_ into. Button cases still clasped tightly in his hand, he shivered a little as he stared down into the entrance. His cold feet pressed deep indents in the mud.

He wasn’t exactly cut out for this. He’d just barely gotten his second wind after a night without sleep. He wasn’t strong, he wasn’t fast, he wasn’t skilled.  There were people out there much smarter and more strategic than he'd ever be. He may be a magician, but the art of spellcasting was gone with the rest of his memories. Failure was almost a guarantee.

He could die. Actually die.

Or he could make his way down there only to chicken out and scamper back up to the surface. All he’d have to do would be to face the captain’s dinner, his mother’s shame…

And let down the only two people who seemed to believe in him.

He remembered Eliot collapsing down onto the rim of the fountain. He remembered Alice’s clenched fist.

What was he more afraid of?

He got down on his knees, and crawled into the clock tree.

Quiet descended over the woods. The green tie on the branch fluttered as the wind picked up. Clouds passed by overhead, and the sky grayed.

And from a long way off, Eliot peered out from behind a white oak, Dragon’s Breath still burning in his lungs. Freshly attired in charcoal slacks, an indigo button down, and a pitch black waistcoat, he had a notepad full of Julia’s scribbles clutched in one hand.

He dug his fingers into the grooves of the bark, anchoring himself in place. It was just him out here. No Alice, no Penny, no Kady, even no Bambi. No one he had to keep his walls up for. And everything inside him cried out to get closer, to go down into the clock tree too. The notepad crumpled as he tightened his other hand into a fist, his knuckles showing white.

He’d told Penny the wrong decisions were usually ten times louder. Surprise surprise, he was proving himself right again. He definitely wasn’t supposed to be this close. Christ, he wasn’t even supposed to be here. It was bad, it was selfish, it might fuck _everything_ up.

But a smile grew over his face. It became his first true, exultant laugh in almost ten months. He was practically on the verge of tears. He couldn't believe it. Of all the things he’d expected to see today, it certainly wasn’t Quentin stripping down to his underwear.

Q looked…god, he really didn’t look healthy. The little pudge on his stomach was gone, and his ribs were outlined beneath his pale skin. His legs still had some muscle, but his arms were twigs compared to what Eliot was used to. And his ass…well, that wasn’t so bad, but all the same…

It was him. The same hunch to his shoulders, the same gait, the same way he’d pat something twice after he set it down.

Seeing Q, borderline naked or not, was…as painful as it was wonderful. It felt the same now as it had hours ago, when Eliot first saw him clamoring down the stairs in the labyrinth.

Sometimes, it felt like it was always like that, in this life. Seeing Quentin. Painful-wonderful.

That haze of a morning when Q stood in the Cottage living room with his arms crossed, shooting Eliot so many scared, hurting, blaming, _wanting_ looks he had to sink into his own secondhand smoke and stare out the window, unable to banish the memories of their first kiss and the expression on Q’s face when he came.

That bright, chilly beach on whose stones he knelt, jagged rocks digging into one knee and tears cresting in his eyes as Q’s patient, certain, forgiving, encouraging, healing hands nestled the weight of an entire realm on his head, right after the irony of announcing that destiny was bullshit and they both cracked vulnerable smiles at each other.

That empty armory they’d sat in, side by side, craning around to let Q gather him into his arms, his back twinging with the awkward angle, and the loneliness looming in his chest beaten back by the safety of just being _held_ and the invitation to give his ass a little squeeze sending them into sputters of laughter that shook their whole bodies and pressed their hearts closer together.

And all that'd been in the same fucking _week._ When they were both so  _young._

And the last time he'd seen him, that brief, bleary moment when he’d broken through the Monster, everything _loud_ and _too much_ and _allsensessearinghisbrainmakeitstop_ but Q – tired, sad, gorgeous, please-take-my-heart-just-don’t-break-it Q – was standing right in front of him, and all it took was mentioning their little code for an entire other life before he was looking at Eliot with such staggering relief and love.  

Shit, he was going to cry after all. He hadn't, before. Not really. Not with everyone else around.

He wished it didn’t feel so good now.

He let it out, heaving gasps, hissing through his gritting teeth, and then outright wailing.  His knees were barely holding him up. If it weren’t for his primal _need_ to keep his eyes on the tree, blurred by tears or no, he’d let himself fall.

On good days, his promise to be braver helped keep the mask in place, helped him forgive himself by a slim, microscopic margin. Today wasn’t a good day.

Because when he got to the mosaic memories...He was terrified of forgetting them, if he didn't think on them enough. Right now, he was their only keeper.

Didn't mean they didn't tear at his heart so much he almost got lost in them. 

The wind grew in strength, howling through the forest. Every towering trunk around him groaned, twigs snapping, leaves yanked off and sent spiraling into the air. His own hair was whipping around his face. Q’s clothes billowed on the branches of the clock tree like the _Muntjac_ ’s sails caught in a hurricane. The green tie suddenly whipped off of the branch, flung high into the air.

On instinct, he began a tut to catch it and bring it back. He sucked air into his lungs when, naturally, the spell didn’t take. Then Quentin’s shirt got thrown to the ground too and started rolling away. Then it started raining. Hard.

“I was having a _moment_ here,” he said, not that anyone was listening.

His inner Margo was telling him to pussy up and stop being a petty, dramatic queen about it. He wiped his eyes as the water lashed his face, tears lost in the rain, and ran down the slope after the tie.


	8. Interlude II: The Architect's Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A peek at the notes currently clutched in Eliot's hand. 
> 
> I thought I was making another one of these interludes for plot reasons, and then I got smacked in the face with feelings. Sometimes I feel like I'm along for the ride just as much as you guys are. Hope you're having as much fun as I am! 
> 
> If you're having trouble with some of her abbreviations, let me know and I'll go back in and make things a little clearer. I was mostly going for realism, but I wouldn't want that to get in the way of people understanding what's going on. 
> 
> Also, what Julia writes in these notes are her own personal, biased opinions and questions. Bear in mind that she is still grieving, and her thoughts aren't clear, and they don't by any means define anyone's experiences with mental illness or grief. She isn't exactly "right" about certain things here, and they are a reflection on how a person's grief can manifest itself when it's internalized.

* * *

 

[Excerpts from the notes of Julia Wicker, regarding the Reconstruction of Quentin Coldwater:]

 

_10/19/XXXX_

Need to confirm it’s our Q 1st. 39 timelines = possibility of getting another Q 39x higher. Time exists differently outside of Underworld; no reason why 39 other versions aren’t in afterlife/Underworld too, thank you Jane Chatwin. Each one would be a slightly different soul, right?

Mirror Realm connected to Underworld? Souls exist outside of magic; confirmed by existence of Underworld + Neitherlands Lib. Branch in it during time gods shut off magic. Per Kady, Mirror Realm can split body/soul into pieces ie Harriet. Okay, need to confirm souls make it to Underworld whole from Mirror Realm before checking that it’s our Q.

 

 

_10/23/XXXX_

No luck finding spell to confirm. Brakebills Lib. has no books on subject (tell Fogg?). Waiting on response from Alice about visiting NL. Either need to find faster way to comm. w/ her, or need to find alternate route to NL besides Travelling.

 

 

_10/25/XXXX_

Alice sent NL Traveler. Guess nvm about alt. route. Got to NL and didn’t tell Alice about project yet, can’t alert other NL people/branches about communications from Source, in case Source is trustworthy. Just said needed to get away from P23. She gave me a loaner lib. card to pass the time. Said some previous Julias were Knowledge magicians, so lib. card would help if I need to work on relearning magic and making my own spells w/out Brakebills rules & without dangers of Hedge magic & magic surges.  

Remember to text Kady to check in.

 

 

_10/31/XXXX_

So there're certain books in NL that only appear on Earth’s Halloween? Books in shelves that weren’t there on 10/30. Some lib.’s idea of joke? Anyway, found 5 confirming Underworld gets souls from Mirror Realm just like other planes (Edwards 256; Jhubar 778; Kilom 99; Oomur 1281; Xavier 868). Maybe can trust Source. Not til after confirming if 39 other Qs are out there, tho, or if can confirm if our Q has moved on, or if Q is in waiting areas ie bowling alley (Richard said about 2000 islands down there). Plus “their system does not handle 40 deaths well.”

Possible to find Q’s book?

*3 different books advised that if there are other “versions” of a soul, they would have moved on by now (Breynk 345; Roberts 777; Wyllymu 145). Also found in card catalogue that all previous versions of Q’s books are in Underworld lib already. Our Q’s book is not down there. (yet???)

Remember to text Kady

 

 

_11/11/XXXX_

Alice had our Q’s book. Asked to borrow it. She said it was checked out to her and “would go down to Underworld branch to be shelved there permanently if checked back in” before I can check it out, even if she’s head of NL (sounds fake, but okay). Asked if she read it. She says she hasn’t. Doesn’t sound like her. In the end, doesn’t she always want to know? Don’t I?

 

 

_11/15/XXXX_

Source sent up copies of Underworld registry (from waiting area visited while Shadeless?) hidden in pages of _After the Afterlife_. Need to check this book out for long term anyway.

 

 

_11/16/XXXX_

Had to figure out how they “date” things BUT: no sign of “Quentin Coldwater” anywhere for people coming in. Wasn’t even “checked in,” much less sent to bowling alley or other island! Why didn’t he go to the lobby like everyone else? Where did he go? Is he still in Mirror Realm?

~~Was he that ready to move on?~~

 

 

_11/18/XXXX_

Realized this morning: problem with no check-in: there’s no “check out” either. Registry has columns for "check in,” then “which island sent to” for processing/getting ready to move on, then something called “STTG,” then marking when they’ve “moved on.”

*STTG = Secrets Taken To the Grave (Bridget 12) = Deal with Underworld to get souls ready to move on and to “clarify” things for Underworld Branch of NL.

 

 

_11/20/XXXX_

Yesterday snuck into Alice’s office. Found directory of every NL librarian. Thought Underworld Branch must have one too. Possible to find out who was on duty in STTG during Q’s processing time?

WTF

SOURCE IS LISTED IN STTG DEPT.

** WTF **

Have to get down there. Fuck all this sneaking around **BS**. Time to go hunt down dragon or some other fucking thing. Research how to threaten Bookwyrm, or other dragon.

 

 

_11/27/XXXX_

Is it worth it to protect Source anymore? Well, at least calling them “Source” keeps me from getting too FRIENDLY. Source contacted me again last night before I could go and demand answers. They prob. read my book or some shit to stop me.

Yelled at Source for how they could possibly know Q could be brought back.

[ _Several pages are missing from binding of notepad here. Upon later retrieval, the missing pages are actually blank. They were torn out and either crumpled, set on fire, or torn to pieces to relieve Julia’s stress/anger. When the notes resume:_ ]

Source revealed they met Q at elevator. Didn’t send him to lobby. Took him straight to STTG, then gave him Metrocard (object that lets souls move on) then led him through a doorway.

 ~~Asked~~ Shouted again how Q could be brought back.

Source said they realized Q was processed differently than other souls they saw after him. Q was their first STTG case, but no others have been processed like he was, so far. Why was Q different? Affected by Mirror Realm death vs. “regular” death? When Source did research, something came up about Mirror Realm souls affected/torn apart by BIG magic (such as the Mirror Realm backfire of: a Minor Mending of a mirror = actually mending something that was channeling a portal to The Seam). The BIG magic backfire that happens in Mirror Realm does something to the soul. Like its radioactive. Gets sent to a “holding” plane/state ASAP instead of going to Underworld lobby to affect other souls. Happened to asshole bastard Everett too.

Q is…trapped. He was given Metrocard, so he’s “ready” to move on (based on Underworld system, not whether he’s actually ready in his own mind). He’s trapped somewhere that’s not Underworld but not “moved on” either.

Couldn’t handle that. Woke myself up from crying/screaming. Alice found me. Told her it was a nightmare. She stayed with me for rest of night. Didn’t go back to sleep.

 

 

_11/28/XXXX_

Used NL Traveler to go back to Earth. Needed to get back to…real life. Couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone what I knew. I wanted to. So badly. But if I missed the signs all those months ago, or saw them and didn't do anything, then I need to do this. Anyway, can’t reveal something that’s only going to open old wounds, with no plan. Barely able to keep my wards up around P23. He knew something was wrong, tho, damn him. I love/hate how he knows me. Hard to trust myself emotionally when there’s someone who knows exactly how to make me feel better, even though I’ve never gotten that close with anyone. But couldn’t get chat with Source out of my head either. Remember to make up excuses to get out of Josh’s attempt at Thanksgiving. Just want to get drunk as fuck with Kady to stop thinking about things for a little while.

 

 

_12/01/XXXX_

Q’s phone rang from inside his room today. Don’t think anyone’s been in there since Eliot a couple of months ago. Turned out Eliot was the one calling the phone. Didn’t pick up. Checked call log. Looks like everyone’s called ~~Q~~ the phone at least once since the bonfire. Since me on his birthday, there was Alice, then Eliot, then Josh, Alice three times after; even Kady and Margo caved once. Some voicemails are on it, didn’t touch them. Phone rang again from Eliot even while I was holding it.

I have to go back. I’ll ask P23 tomorrow if I have to.

 

 

_12/02/XXXX_

P23 took me back. Asked him not to stay and just let me work. Remember to send apology text.

Source sent up more books since I left; found them waiting in study room for me when got back.

 

 

_12/16/XXXX_

Been struggling with a question since Source first contacted me. With these latest books, the question’s impossible to ignore. These new books are a tray of scalpels and I’m the surgeon who can perform the miracle surgery whenever she feels like it. It’s not like my goddess powers, though. It’s just me. The first few books say I need to restore him first (Teague Vol 1, 2389) – more like “reconstruct” him (Eve 981), really, since it’s like the pieces that make up “him” don’t want to stay together thanks to Mirror Realm but they’re being held together by Underworld magic (Wilholm 6666664) – then I can bring him out of there, then he can really move on.

Or I can bring him back. Didn’t miss those books at the bottom of the pile, either.

Q shouldn’t have gone into Mirror Realm. Not with everything he’d lost. He went with the sacrifice play in the end. Didn't want to keep fighting?

But that begs my question: When are a person’s wishes of wanting to die respected, and when are they not? People with agonizing physical illnesses or injuries sometimes don’t want to live, and we don’t want them to suffer anymore. Is it the same for Q? Not only from the metaphysical fission from the Mirror Realm, but from his depression? How much pain can a person go through from their own head, nevermind their body, before we say they shouldn’t suffer like that anymore? How many times do we say that life gets better, but the person doesn’t have any relief even when good things happen? How many times have we kept a person around when they don’t want to be here anymore?

Trying to answer/solve this would probably take more time than trying to get him back. Also, never tried healing depression while a goddess. Didn’t enter my head to. “Healing it” would also just be an act of hubris. Invalidating everything he’s gone through with a wave of a hand? Wrong. Disrespectful.

I do know this: It’s not something we can always heal, but it’s not always terminal.

 

 

_12/07/XXXX_

Only 5 souls have been restored in the history of… since time began (Teague Vol 2, 85866369). Q’s existence in that “holding” plane = like a fossil in rock, mammoth in glacier, bug in amber, etc. Getting him out is going to be delicate work. Not gonna be like _Jurassic Park_ , that’s for sure.

Need physical construct to channel the restoration. Needs to function like CERN particle accelerator + something that’ll do what nuclear reactor control rods do. No records/blueprints of previous constructs exist in entire NL.(why? perhaps the success of the spell eradicates its design/creation?)

Gonna have to get creative.

Remember to text Kady. Starting to guess I’m working on something. Not sure should tell her.

I’m missing the atmosphere of bouncing ideas off of other Hedges, though. & All our little loopholes that Brake. never teaches.

 

 

_12/09/XXXX_

“Reconstruction” needs to be done by the soul itself?!?!?!?! How can ~~it~~ he? Does that mean he’s still awake? If he is…what’s happening to him down there???

 

 

_12/14/XXXX_

(Briony 554) is where info from above notes can be found.

Sooooooo….

If Q has to do the reconstruction himself, then I have to build structure in “holding” plane (need other word for it). So, have to get there. So, have to go back down to Underworld. Don’t exactly have pet dragon that can send me back and forth. This is gonna be a whole damn other can of worms, isn’t it…

Regarding structure:

  * Angles interrupt flow/rays/vectors. Curves increase the amount of space taken up by structure, but wouldn’t interrupt flow.
  * Can’t just stick him in there like a launch pad. Mirror Realm radioactivity needs to be absorbed by structure gradually (Eve 574)
  * Stacking levels might cancel one level’s output/function. Single level? Go back to particle accelerator idea.
  * Also what to do with Q to not re-expose him to Mirror Realm stuff as he goes back out?



Looks like I have to be the Virgil to Q’s Dante now. Here’s hoping it’ll be a Comedy in the end.

Can’t believe I just wrote that. Q would laugh, though.

 

 

_12/16/XXXX_

Found 6th case that was _borderline_ successful. Surprised Source didn’t find this one. 6th case reconstructed soul by exposing soul to similar situations it’d experienced in the past to knit the soul back together. Broke it up into 3 different scenarios that defined their life/choices/who they were. Problem was, the “reconstructor” did the tasks themselves = the soul that was restored was more like the reconstructor’s mental image of the soul, rather than the person the soul actually was. So, very good reason for Q to do it himself…

I just have to create the scenarios…and hope he reacts the same?

 

 

_12/18/XXXX_

I’m a piece of shit.

Forgot to text Kady, and P23 dropped her off to bust thru the doors last night.

Call P23 tonight. At least apologize, if nothing else. Told Kady would only start explain if he left. I didn’t want him to, but… I had to make him.

Kady wasn’t happy. Wanted to take me out of NL. When P23 did leave, had to say something to convince Kady to let me stay. Only told her I’ve been working on a way to get down to the Underworld and back, without dragon help and more than just once or twice. Didn’t tell her about other complications. Was terrified…not about whether admitting that will hurt her, but how much.

She could see it in my face that I knew what I was saying. And all the implications about what getting down to the Underworld regularly would mean.

So: I’m a piece of shit.

 

 

_12/19/XXXX_

I found Kady this morning. Told her I knew that this wasn’t fair to her. I told her I…would stop if she told me to. It was the only thing I could offer that told her how sorry I was.

And I meant it. Can’t read that in my book, Source.

Because it’s always been on her, to carry other people. Her mom. Marina. Me. Penny. The whole lot of us have used her. And I can’t do that to her again. I wanted to give her that.

 

 

_12/21/XXXX_

Kady said she’s gonna work with me on finding a way to the Underworld. Said we could lord it over the NL and Brakebills forever, that we could “stick it right up their asses.” It’d be something they never figured out, but Hedges did.

I think we both chose to ignore the real reasons behind agreeing to it, for each other’s sakes. I can tell she knows that me going down there'd be to see Q. And she probably knows I know, if she goes down there, it’d be for her own reasons. But we’ve always had our own agendas when it comes to working with each other. Instead of that throwing me off and making her less trustworthy, it doesn’t. I don’t think it ever has.

The Best Bitches are back together.

 

_12/23 – 01/19/XXXX_

[ _Julia spends these weeks working on the formula for what they eventually dub “Dragon’s Breath” with Kady. All records have been destroyed with no hope of recovery. It is believed they managed to test the Dragon’s Breath using the mind control of insects, with eventual successful results. They also eventually pinpoint the plane that Quentin Coldwater is being suspended in by infiltrating the Secrets Taken to the Grave department between sessions. Kady leaves on 1/16 to go tend to inducting new Hedge witches. Julia then begins various calculations on the Circumstances and meta-math needed for her meta-composition.]_

 

_1/20/XXXX_

Per Source, the holding plane apparently has little to no ambient magic, which is what allows Q to remain there. Possible to combine something that constantly draws magic from the “living” plane with transportation? NL has chutes and Bookwyrm to transportHOLY SHIT need to go make sure Alice isn’t in her offi

 

 

_1/21/XXXX_

Managed to swipe models of Siphon from Alice’s office while she was out yest.. Surprised she didn’t end up moving designs/prototypes to Poison Room. Perhaps can reverse engineer: Siphon in NL piping to send magic to me in holding plane?

Also, Neith. has fountains that transport, but they must also be constantly fed magic if they are always “open”/full of magic that takes people to different realms. If I make my own fountain, and fix it up with a steady supply of magic from NL, then I don’t need our new spell to get back. Just need to get there. It’s either that, or make one of Fogg’s perpetual batteries. Don’t think he’ll give me those designs anytime this millennium. Just need to make mini-Siphon, then design fountain around it.

Suggested Names for New Spell

Wicker and Orloff Diaz’s Underworld Transportation Spell  
Orloff-Diaz and Wicker’s Underworld Transportation Spell  
~~Wickoff’s~~  
There and Back Again (for Q)  
~~I’m Not Dead Yet~~  
~~Regrets~~  
Morning Breath  
Dragon’s Breath  
~~Suck It Library~~

 

_1/24/XXXX_

[ _Several pages before this are filled with measurements, meta-math calculations for the reconstruction spell she is meta-composing, and a blueprint for a fountain identical to the Earth fountain in the Neitherlands.]_

Need to design where fountain eventually leads back to. Is there some way a la _Howl’s Moving Castle_ that the fountain can be switched between where it travels to? So one switch can lead Q back if he so chooses, and then me somewhere because I’m not dead. Or even put mirrors in hidden section of fountain to send Mirror Realm fission back to that dimension.

Fillory has ram heads, Earth has statue. Prob. safe just go with Earth fountain statue? Need to find info on how Nieth. fountains are made. One reference is that they grow the fountains (like Doctor Who grows a TARDIS??? Q, where are you when I need you?) (Grossman Vol 2 +3).

 

 

_1/26/XXXX_

Managed to finish labyrinth design today, thank you Kimber memories. Design/shape of a labyrinth means Q walks through channeling stones (like Stonehenge) that can knit him back together, while other walls work on absorbing the Mirror Realm fission. Mirror Realm fission can go through the pathways that don’t lead to the center and get released elsewhere. Center of labyrinth and pathway to the center can house the restoration/reconstruction.

Restor. spell will anchor itself in two places: inside me, who’s known him the longest, as a tie to the “living plane” (Teague Vol 1, 14556) and to something physical. It shapes itself based on these two factors.

Fountain will serve multiple functions now: 1) travel back to living plane, 2) physical anchor for restoration, and 3) where I can draw magic from.

Text Kady to check in.

 

 

_1/29/XXXX_

P23 came to visit today. Offered to take me to the beach, or Yosemite, or the Grand Canyon. Somewhere to get my head out of the books for just a little while. Even showed up with my favorite tea in a thermos, which NL never has. Just like you did, Q, when I couldn’t light a candle.

Penny got a peek of all of my stuff as I shut the conf. door behind me. He’s worried. He was looking at me like James did after I wouldn’t let myself forget Brakebills. Only this time, I don’t let myself off the hook. I took him up on his offer. Went with going for a walk in some ruins together, in some country I didn’t recognize.

Trying to talk to each other didn’t work today, just like the other days before. That’s my fault too. It’s okay spending time together, being around each other, but the second we finish with the easy stuff, the surface level stuff, I get too overwhelmed. So does he. You’d think it’d be the opposite. That’s definitely how it used to be, when he first got here: talking was easier than being in the same room for too long. And then, after a little while, I thought…

Am I getting too used to not talking around him, because it’s more comfortable than the alternative? Now, the longer we don’t talk about it… ~~Is it~~ Are we going to get worse?

Maybe he thought the same. After we got back, turns out he had another reason for coming. The Binder asked to be brought to me, and Penny was here to hand ~~it~~ him over.

I managed a thank you, before he Travelled out of here. Got a smile back.

 

 

_1/30/XXXX_

The Binder came for a good reason. I was supposed to have burned him by now, and I haven’t yet. I was faced with my question all over again. Whether a person’s wishes to die are respected or not was staring me right in the face. A lot sooner than I expected.

Faced with that…you know what I did instead, Q? I ended up telling him about it all. From the very first time Source contacted me, all the way through until today. I guess it was kinda like therapy, telling all this to someone who’s practically a stranger; who I know has objective distance about it all.

And then, he offered to help. He’s gonna put off his request. I could carry him with me, he said, when I went there. He can guide you through the three stages whenever I can’t be there. And he even said something that never entered my mind until now: he could even be there after, if I fail and another one of our friends came along.

Shit.

Failing.

All of my meta-math and solutions to every problem, and I still might fail. You’d think my pride’d get used to the idea, after all these years. But it apparently hasn’t. Is it time to start looking for any more failed cases out there? Am I gonna Niffin-out with all this energy I’ll be channeling, considering my magic is still so new? Should I let other people in on my work now that the dam’s broken, and take advantage of co-op casting?

 

 

_1/31/XXXX_

I can’t wait any longer. Alice came in today, demanding to know where Q’s book is. I had no idea what she was talking about. Turns out his book’s gone from her desk. She checked, and it hasn’t gone down to the Und. Branch either. Even though I swore to her I’d never touched it the whole time I’ve been here, she still looked as though she was either about to incinerate me on the spot or just burst into tears in front of me, which is saying something. She admitted she really hadn’t read his book yet, and then lashed out, saying she’s been digging into a way to bring him back too and that I was getting in the way of her work. If I didn’t give his book back, then I should leave.

I know she’s hurting. Has she gotten a chance to talk with anyone about Q? Not just singing some song at a bonfire, but actually talking about it? I’m being a bit of a hypocrite here, I know, but I’ve at least had Kady and Penny sometimes. Who’s been there for Alice? She and I've both been burying ourselves in work. What closure have any of us found, besides a few moments of weakness where we call that phone number just to hear his voice? Throwing pieces of him into a fire in lieu of a funeral?

The other problem is, since I didn’t take it, and she didn’t send it back herself, then we don’t know who has it. The inherent magic of the Library wouldn’t forbid someone checking the book out for long periods of time (unless someone puts a hold on it?).

Someone has his book, or it’s ceased to exist. I don’t know which is more likely. Alice’s going to hunt Q’s book down on her own anyway, no help from me needed.

I can’t hold off on trying to rescue him any longer, though. I can triple check everything ‘til I’m old and gray and practice casting the spells until I break my hands, but in the end I just have to do it. The Binder’s ready, and I can ask him to co-op cast with me if need be.

To Do:

Food (at least 1 week)  
Brush up on survival spells (heat, cold, water, edible plants, etc)  
Spare clothes  
New Spell doses (1 “to” and 1 “from”) in case I need to come back early  
Pack up labyrinth and fountain designs  
Get conf. room extension (just in case Alice didn’t mean it)  
Binder  
~~Goodbye notes?~~

 

Q, no matter what happens, I owe it to you to do everything I can. I said it was your bravery that made me see, once. I’ve known you longer than anyone else, and yet only once in a while have I really seen what your bravery means. I’ll get you out, or someone else will after me, and then you can tell us what you want to do next. It’s about time you get that chance.


	9. The Temptation to Cheat

“Okay, come on,” Quentin whispered. He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, and still somehow managed to paint another streak of mud on his skin.

The air was stale and putrid. Sweat dripped down his nose. He was more mud than Quentin at this point. There was a good chance he was going to shiver himself into exhaustion. He was simultaneously bored out of his skull and bordering on freaking the fuck out.

It probably wasn’t smart to make any noise. This glutton _The Binder_ ’d talked about might be able to hear him. He’d been crawling under the earth for a good hour. Technically every time he moved, he was getting closer.

“Maybe there’s nothing at the end,” he said. “Maybe I’m the glutton. And there’s some metaphor here. About how I need to lose a few pounds.”

At least it wasn’t dark. The endless tunnel was illuminated by some kind of magic, a low ambient light casting the roots over his head into shadow. It made sure he didn’t miss how certain sections of the walls were covered in slime and ooze, how insects skittered out of his way when they sensed him coming.

Claustrophobia almost overtook him during the first half hour. The idea of the weight of the layers and layers and layers of earth above him. Beside him. Behind him. At least the roots seemed to guarantee the whole thing wasn’t going to collapse. Remembering some kids’ songs he used to sing to the Shades kept him from thinking about it too much. He was starting to run out of them.  

He needed to take a break. His arms were literally unable to hold him up without shaking like minor earthquakes. Keeping his head low, he shoved his feet forward and sat down, pressing his chin to his chest and taking in deep breaths. If there was a part of his body that wasn’t screaming, he couldn’t feel it.

The button cases were probably leaving permanent indents in his hand. The little things weren’t much cleaner than he was, after he unclenched his fingers and held them up. But their contents were clean, and at least that counted for something.

Actually he was starting to hate them, just a little bit.

“What am I supposed to…”

He sighed. Sweat, or maybe it was more mud, had plastered his hair to his face. He missed the comfort of being able to push his bangs out of his eyes. A gesture that made him feel like himself.

 _Force the buttons into the glutton’s mouth_.

Groaning, Quentin wanted to cover his eyes with his hands. Grit scratched at every joint. He was doing this for Fillory, he reminded himself. _For Fillory_. For getting to go there. For the Cozy Horse and Castle Whitespire. For Chatwin’s Torrent, and the Clock Barrens. For Alice. For Eliot. For the sputtering hope in his chest that he was going to find _himself_ there, after an entire lifetime of not knowing who he was supposed to be. All this was _worth it_ , damnit!

He swallowed, uncurled himself, and crawled on.

The light started to get a little brighter. The air wasn’t improving. Unless he was about to emerge into a bog, or a graveyard, the light wasn’t coming from the sun, and the air wasn’t from lack of circulation. There was something up ahead.

“Ready, or not,” he jeered with another sigh.  

The ground turned to stone beneath his knees. Then, when he squeezed around a pair of large roots covered in beetles, there was a cave. Filthy wasn’t the right word for it. Fetid, maybe. Putrefying, if he was feeling dramatic about it. Piles of fur and bones lay strewn along the floor. Larger furs were heaped in what could pass for a nest or a bed along a nearby section of the wall. Candelabras stood on long, low tables, lit not with fire but some other kind of sparkling glow. Half-bitten pears, strawberries, and apples sat on golden platters. Slices of cheese and stale breads littered the tables in similar states of consumption. Basins and troughs lay scattered around the tables, all filled to various levels with old wine.

The walls shimmered, and from behind one of the dozen pillars of stone that held up the ceiling, a huge ram walked forward, bending its head towards the nearest basin to guzzle at the wine inside. His coat was made of pure, golden fur, and every step of his hooves sounded like the crash of a felled tree. Horns three times the size of those Eliot had briefly worn swung wildly every time the ram dipped its head.

**Welcome.**

The voice came from the ram, although its mouth was still busy drinking.

**It is customary to bow in Our presence, child of Earth.**

Quentin hadn’t even tried to stand yet, but his legs were jelly already. The signs were there. A giant talking ram, with a voice like church bells and all the pretentiousness of divine self-worth.

_Ember._

He lowered his head to his hands, his nose pressing into his palms. The muscles in his chest were starting to tighten, and everything started to shake.

_Force the buttons into the glutton’s mouth…_

But this was Ember! Maybe there was something else here, and the god was here to help?

**You may speak.**

Say something. Say something!

“My apologies. I’m, uh, a little overwhelmed, my lord Ember. Um. I, um, wasn’t even expecting You, to be honest,” he said, daring to raise his head.

Ember mirrored the action, shaking his head and spraying the walls with a shower of wine like a dog trying to rid itself of flies.  

**We are pleased you know of Us. You may rise.**

Quentin pushed himself up and stood, almost losing his balance, but he managed it in the end. The chill gave him an excuse to wrap his arm around himself and keep the buttons close to his chest.

Ember walked over to stand in the center of the cave. Every time His horns got close to slamming into one of the pillars, the stone bent out of the way like clay, until He was past and they resumed their positions. The god squinted, His horizontal pupils making the expression all the more unnerving. A long tongue licked His lips to catch a few more drops before they fell from His jaws.

**The time has come to return to the land of Fillory. It is in need of a champion. Will you join Us on a noble quest, child of Earth?**

“I wi-…hmmm – ” Quentin began, then covered his mouth to keep himself from going any further. It’d been a gut reaction. Borderline instinctual. “What’s wrong? What’s happening there?” he asked instead, trying to play it safe.

Wine was still dribbling down Ember’s throat and onto his coat, sluicing onto the floor.   **The land needs to be cleansed. We shall return and restore it to glory.**

The god then started on one of _those_ speeches, the kind that Quentin sometimes just skipped over in the books. Ember wasn’t repeating Himself verbatim, but there were some parts Quentin had definitely heard before. He’d always wondered whether Plover’d just gotten bored of the trope but knew he was needed to fill some space between plot points. Apparently, it was closer to transcription than authorial caprice.

And, like any passionate fan, Quentin wasn’t someone who could take the words presented to him and not dig a little for answers.

Maintaining what he hoped was a naïve appearance, he waited until Ember had finished, then asked, “So, why does it need to be ‘cleansed?’ Isn’t a part of its ‘glory’ the fact that, um, evil forces are always trying to invade it?”

**There are far greater forces at work, My child. Our stewardship of the land is in peril.**

“So why aren’t you there now, helping your people? You know, getting them out of the. Um. The peril.”

The ram started to speak again. But all Quentin could focus on were the stains of wine on the stone, the floor, Ember’s own coat.

**…usurper to the balance of power…**

He’d had this idea that Ember, though not without fault, was untouchable. A god like Him could act like He wanted; He had divinity to back him up. There were Higher Laws, etcetera.

Somehow these…these _blemishes_ – the wine, the reek, the slops and scraps – were there, right out in the open.

**…need the means to travel there…**

_The Binder_ said the glutton was banished –

**…merely a matter of recovering those stolen buttons.**

Quentin held himself tighter. “S-Stolen?”

Ember nodded once. His words turned kinder, somehow. Sadder. **A tragedy, is it not? The means to travel to Our beloved world in the hands of those who would do Fillory the most harm.**

Quentin’s face flushed, and the cases felt like they were burning his hands.

**That is why We ask you to be Our champion, child of Earth. Once We have them in Our possession, Fillory’s rescue is assured. If they are not located soon, one touch of those buttons could send even more foul terrors to haunt its shores. Bring them to Us, so that the return of Fillory’s creator coincides with its first true king in decades.**

“Its first true king?”

**Those chosen by Us are destined to rule. Fillory awaits, my child. Will you save her?**

Oooooohhhhh shit.

Fuck.

FUCK.

He could go now. Just turn his back, open one of the cases, and he’d be there.

Wait. That wasn’t what a hero would do. Going to Fillory wasn’t meant to be just a visit. Ember was asking for his help to restore – no, to _save_ – the very place that saved him so many times. If he could give back even just a sliver of what Fillory had done for him, wouldn’t it all be worth it, no matter what the cost?

And hadn’t he been right, before? Alice had given him the way to Fillory after all. If he went now, he’d be on his way to becoming who he was again, right? Fillory’s king. Its savior. The memories of his old life with Eliot would come later, once he was back where he belonged!

As he lowered his arms and looked Ember in the eye, Quentin took in a deep breath, ready to tell Him that he was ready now, that he had the buttons now. And then his brain caught itself. It got stuck on the thought of being where he belonged. He let out a shaky exhale.

Because didn’t Ember belong in Fillory? Neither He nor His brother Umber ever set foot into the real world whenever the Chatwins were needed. The Chatwins were always called to Fillory through a clock, a telephone booth, a door. Quentin’s crawl through the roots _maybe_ had some similarities to the time Rupert climbed a tree and found himself there, but again: Ember just said the buttons were needed to take them to Fillory. Which reinforced that He and Quentin were not there now. And didn’t Ember always belong with Umber? The second god wasn’t around. He would have shown Himself by now, right?

So, supposing Ember had been kicked out…then it didn’t matter what by, whether it was the “Shadeless creature” or the Higher Laws themselves. The point was, He wasn’t powerful enough ( _or “good” enough?_ ) to go back on his own. Which meant that Quentin couldn’t trust Ember or His lofty assurances. Which meant that giving Him the buttons wasn’t a noble beginning to a righteous quest.

When it came down to it, he couldn’t rely on a god for help. He couldn’t use ( _abuse?_ ) the convenience of the buttons. It wasn’t right.

He was going to find some other way forward, then. He didn’t need them for himself. 

The hard press of the button cases into his skin disappeared. Now there was a…squishy feeling? What the hell…

Ember’s head suddenly reared back, and His giant nostrils flared. **Have you brought me little cakes?**

Quentin’s eyes widened, and he loosened his fingers by a few centimeters to look down. Peeking out from his fist was not the side of a golden case, but the side of a white spongey little cake.

_Force the buttons into the glutton’s mouth._

_Fucking magic._

 “I have, my lord Ember,” Quentin said, swallowing. “A tribute to Your…patronage. Just…um, give me a sec.”

He sped over and knelt in front of one of the low tables. None of the platters were clean. Using his free hand, he cleared off some slimy sausage off of the nearest one and placed each little cake onto it. Hoping that his fingers hadn’t made too many indents, he went over to Ember with the tray, placing the cakes at the god’s feet. A glob of wine-soaked drool fell to the floor. Quentin was able to back away in just enough time before Ember’s tongue licked the cakes up all at once.

**Mmmm. Oh. Hmmm.**

Ember’s eyes closed in rapture, and He swallowed. Then He coughed. The ram shook Himself, still coughing, opening His mouth for air that would not come. Quentin blanched. He didn’t know the first fucking thing about how to do a fucking ram-god Heimlich maneuver.

He bolted towards Ember, careening around a stone pillar as the god’s eyes strained in their sockets. Quentin grabbed at the wool near the god’s ribs, but it was impossible to wrap his arms around. He got down on all fours, hoping that if he got underneath Him, he might be able to push up against his stomach. Foul odors covered Quentin like a blanket as he started inward. Suddenly Ember fell to his knees, throwing Quentin to the ground and cutting off most of his own air. Quentin could feel every clench and strain from the god’s diaphragm. He struggled to move even his arms in the darkness. The press of Ember’s body restricted everything. He could barely breathe, gasping for some hint of air, as he felt the god dying above him. He screamed when the shaking started, tremors that’d knock stones from a mountain side. A roiling mass swelled the god’s stomach.

There were seven distant clangs of metal on the stone floor. Ember went completely still.

With the last of his air, Quentin yelled, “Ember? Ember?! EMBER!”

No response. Not even a twitch of muscle.

He would have screamed again if there was anything left in his lungs. He slid his hands beneath his chest and heaved with every ounce of his strength. A crack of light sparkled on the wool before him, meaning there was a sliver of space behind him. Sweat on his torso and back had moistened the mud still covering him, and after a few panic fueled moments of wriggling, he managed to get out of there.

Ember was dead. The great swollen tongue lolled out between His teeth. As Quentin watched, a golden cloud of _something_ drifted out of His mouth, floating up to the ceiling. The particles danced and shifted for a moment, then sped off towards the hole Quentin had come through, disappearing from view.

The ground was bathed in a purple ooze, the polluted contents of Ember’s stomach. Shining dully in the light from the candelabras were seven golden keys, no bigger than his palm.

Right. He...he was...he was supposed to take those. 

Ears wringing, heart skipping several beats, he kept anything remotely resembling a thought out of his head as he found a “clean” decorative cloth on one of the tables. He waded through the ooze and puddles, and used the cloth to pick them up. Not a smear or speck darkened their shine as he tugged each of the keys out. As soon as he grabbed the last one, he turned away. All feeling drained out of him as shock settled in. Completely numb, Quentin stumbled to the hole to follow the golden cloud.

He didn’t look back at the body. If he did, he knew he would lose his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally part of a larger one, but I had to split it up into two parts. It was getting a little too big and the upcoming second half needs a little fine tuning. Sorry for the slightly-shorter-than-usual chapter but I'll make up for it in the next one.


	10. The Limited Reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order some PINING? How about a side of some gratuitous FEELINGS? Ever hear someone say you can't have a Slow Burn without a few SPARKS? Well, dish up and dig in, lovelies.

The rain outside had dulled down to a misting drizzle. Eliot had tucked Julia’s notebook into his shirt, and managed to snag all of Quentin’s clothes from the clutches of Nature™. Holding the soggy jacket, shirt, socks, and the green tie close, he’d returned to the clock tree. Quentin’s shoes actually held tiny pools in them from the minor monsoon Eliot’d just weathered (pun begrudgingly intended), and the pants dripped water from both legs.

He’d been leaning against the side of the trunk for a long time. Too long. He just…couldn’t bring himself to move. Because yes, he was a dramatic bitch, Bambi, and he never missed a chance to throw a pity-party.

He nudged each shoe with his foot, tipping them over to get the water out. He knew he should hang everything back on the tree’s proffered limb. Then slink away, back to the labyrinth, like he was never here. Then get ready for a full-fledged Alice scolding. 

Pushing off of the bark felt like resisting a magnetic force.

How many times had he forgotten to bring in the laundry during those surprise Fillory thunderstorms? Arielle’d banned him from spelling them dry ‘til he learned his lesson. He never did. And there were nights that the sound of rain soothed Teddy to sleep like a white noise machine. Hearing pattering drips on their sun-faded red awning sometimes kept Q’s brain steady too. How many rheumatisms from the weather did Q’s callused hands try to massage away?

 _How many times was everything going to remind him of_ everything _?_ Ever since he'd gotten his body back, there was nothing he could do to keep the memories away. And it's not like he had enough maturity to ask a professional whether it was a genuine reaction to trauma...or if his recent possession literally rewired his brain. He didn't really want to know. 

A glow came from the bowels of the tree. He knew that glow.

_God-level magic._

The familiar cloud of massively powerful energy was drifting out from the gap in the trunk. He shivered, not even daring to guess where it came from. All of the times he’d seen it, the worst consequences were never far behind.

It floated through the air, still visible, unhindered by the drizzle in the air. Shit. Why wasn’t it dissipating? It seemed to have some destination, something that was drawing it above the trees and out of site. He blew all of the air out of his lungs when it was gone. He remembered the last time he’d tried to kill a god.

The clock tree then started to…well, it looked like it was having a seizure. Several dead branches broke off and fell to the ground, and a silvery liquid ran down the trunk from the highest bough. It trailed along the branch closest to him and coalesced into an ornate pocketwatch on a chain. Like an apple tree bearing fruit.

If Margo were here, she’d probably say he’d just witnessed the miracle of childbirth.

The branch bowed under the weight, and he held out his hand to catch the watch before it fell. It was pre-wound, apparently, because it started ticking the second it touched his skin. ‘Kay…so, what was he supposed to do with this? He glanced around, then up at the tree, but no hints were forthcoming. Unsure of what else to do, he remembered his Lord-and-Savior Oscar Wilde, and like a proper dandy managed to hook the chain onto one of his waistcoat buttons, nestling the watch into his pocket.

And then he heard it. Scuffling. Whimpering. A gasping breath.

Eliot’s heart was in a vice grip. “Q?”

Wretched groans echoed from inside the tree. Eliot saw a muddied hand rise out of the hole. Its brother followed, a lumpy bundle in its grip. The hands dug into the ground and pulled, and then he could see streaked, dirty arms and a crusted, muddy head of hair. Eliot dropped the clothes and ran forward. He grasped Quentin’s arms and pulled him out into the wet, grey afternoon.

Sobs wracked Quentin’s body as he tried to stand. His head bent to his chest and tears splashed down his face. He was so cold. He wanted to scream that he couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t feel anything!

His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell into a dead faint.

Eliot tried to catch him with a shout. They almost fell to the ground together, except Eliot managed to sink into an odd squat at the last minute, threading his arms under Q’s armpits. The bundle in Quentin’s hand tumbled down, and Eliot heard some metallic clinking as the contents clanged together.

He grunted and wheezed, his muscles straining. His body wasn’t that of a man who’d toiled for decades over arranging tiles and cultivating a garden and bouncing children and grandchildren, but some fuckin’ times, he forgot about that, okay?

Finally, he pressed himself against the side of the tree again, sat down, and managed to arrange Quentin halfway onto his lap. Damp soaked into Eliot’s trousers, and he squirmed in spite of himself.

After a quick once-over, there were no signs of injury. Beyond the mud caking every inch of him, Q was unharmed. At least physically. His head rolled as Eliot adjusted their position again, using his left knee to prop him upright.

A soft exhale tickled the side of Eliot’s neck, raising goosebumps all the way down his spine, and he froze. His brain decided to catch up to the fact that there was an entire, _still mostly naked_ , Quentin pressed against him. He could sense each place they touched, blips on his awareness like sonar beacons. All of them well known, all of them memorized long ago.

A patch of shoulder against his collar bone.

A forearm against his belly.

A swath of lower back against his thigh.

A stretch of shoulder along the bend of his knee.

Goosebumps trailed down his spine again, then back up and across his upper arms. Before the voice in his head could talk him out of it, he was wrapping his free arm around Quentin, bringing him close to his chest, clothes-ruining mud be damned. He cradled his head, threading his hand along that familiar resting place on Q's neck, and let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Just when he thought he’d managed to get a hold of himself, he was holding Quentin. Holding. Quentin. Holding the man who had died – _died –_ without him.

And now he was HERE in his arms.

God, how had Q managed it?

Eliot’s imagination showed no mercy.

He saw Q, seeing him dead in that rickety chair. Q’d probably had to bury him, had to live out the rest of his life with Eliot’s grave hovering on the edges of his vision.

Then, suddenly, sitting across from him in these _young_ bodies on that step, with the hesitant joy of asking to live out their lives again together, while the smell of peaches wafted from Eliot’s mouth.

And then, somehow, soldiering on after Eliot ripped their hearts apart, alone through the Abyss, through hearing everyone cry out “Why can’t we give love one more chance” in their heads, through resigning himself to stay in the Castle, through losing the memories of Arielle and Teddy and their beautiful life all over again as Fogg forced that potion down their throats.

And then waking up to the torture of the Monster in Eliot’s body.

The answer was, Eliot despised himself to think, that Q’d managed it until he couldn’t anymore.

Add another straw onto the self-hatred camel’s back.

When was the last time he’d held Q like this? Not that minor-moment-of-touch down in the labyrinth hours ago, with Alice peeking at them on the sidelines. As miraculous as that’d felt, he tried to think of a real, true _embrace_. Had it been a year? Longer? Had he hugged Q before sitting in that chair and feeling his heart give out? Fuck, he didn’t know. He didn’t remember. When was the last time he’d folded Quentin’s head beneath his chin, nestling each curve into his chest, feeling the warmth of contact spreading through him like this, like the spring sun warming the earth after a long night? Was it when they hid from the fairy queen and he kissed his forehead?

( _That brutal attempt at closeness, because he was a selfish bastard and he didn’t know how else to get all the_ I love you _s out without breaking his heart all over again?_ )

With a shaky breath, he lowered his head, each inch a dare, and pressed his lips to the crown of Quentin’s head, rocking him a little as his damp hair fell over Q’s face.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Q didn’t even remember him.

His curls must’ve tickled, because he felt Quentin’s brow tense. He drew back as Quentin opened his eyes.

“Eliot?” he whispered in a broken voice.

Eliot swallowed, and managed a nod. God, if he didn’t know better…

Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut. His face screwed up in pain again, and he choked back another sob.

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” Eliot said, his hands wavering, unsure where to rest themselves. He opted for rubbing his back in circles.

“I’m a monster,” Quentin wept.

“Join the club,” he muttered before he could stop himself. “Sorry,” he tried again, wishing he could smack himself in the head. “I’m not, like, belittling you. I just,” he huffed, “I meant I’ve done some fucked up shit too. So I can relate. To what you’re feeling right now. And it, well, it might not be as bad as you think.”

“But, I…I killed…” Quentin let out a wail, curling tighter against Eliot’s chest. “The buttons. The Binder s-said I just had to put th-them in His mouth. Oh fffuck. Oh fuck.”

“It’s…it’s what you were supposed to do, Q,” Eliot reassured. Julia’s notebook was pushing against his ribs, right under his breaking heart.

“Why?!” Quentin burst out. “I’mmmmnot, I s-s-shouldn’t’ve...”

“I…I don’t know. It’s…it’s a part of this…whole…thing.”

“Killing…killing EMBER?! It was all a part of the, the plan?” Quentin sucked in a deep breath. “To get me to kill the god of, of the best place in the universe?! The place that, that saved me? S-so m-many times?”

Eliot stilled, blinking as he processed all that. He loved Fillory – well, certain parts of Fillory – well, it did save his life too, so, fine – but hearing “Fillory” and “best place in the universe” in the same sentence was overkill. And, yeah, this Quentin hadn’t seen under Fillory’s skirts yet, but still…

Honestly, besides being a dramatic bitch, he found irreverent quips easier to dish out than super serious conversations any day. And hey, it might help snap Q out of this. 

He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I mean, it’s not… _above_ your pay grade,” he said.

Quentin shuddered. “What?”

“Minor spoiler alert, dear Q, but it’s not something you haven’t done before.”

Quentin’s eyes grew to the size of golf balls. Eliot decided not to backpedal so much as dig himself into this mess even deeper. “I was pretty impressed the first time you did it. Even if it got us into some deep shit. Like, killing one of Fillory’s creators to _save_ Fillory? Tallllk about drama.” He even threw in some side eye with his drawling voice, and finished with a conspicuous smile.

That did the trick. Short-circuiting Q’s brain was never that hard.

“Save it,” Quentin repeated. He sounded like he didn’t believe a word.

“Can’t say more. But if you want the CliffNotes, _voila_. Let me guess, instead of the towering pillar of decency you always thought He was, Ember was more like the shiniest shit in the manure pile?”

If Eliot could’ve recorded the look on Q’s face right then, he would have. The guy went through all five stages of grief in the span of five seconds, and he managed to look ridiculously cute the whole time. He sniffed, wiping his eyes over and over, but couldn’t manage more than a few sputtering noises.

“Thought so.” Eliot didn’t think he could get away with what he was about to do next, but he decided to try his luck. He slid down a little further so Quentin’s head rested right on his shoulder, and cradled the whole upper half of his body to his chest. “Quests don’t usually tell you about stuff going on behind the scenes. You know, the effects from the causes?” He trailed his fingers along Quentin’s shoulder. “All the big, magical shenanigans going on out there, they usually put the noble protagonists through a margarita blender. And then dump them into the garbage disposal right after as a ‘thank you.’”

“I don’t understand anything you just said,” Quentin mumbled.

Snorting, Eliot patted his arm. “Just know it was a profound metaphor. I expect my Pulitzer any day now.”

“Um. Okay.”

Eliot sighed. He still wasn’t getting this right. It wouldn’t do any good to just leave it there. “But seriously. Everyone, including me, has been tossing a lot at you, and telling you to just go with it." Gently, he stroked the side of his head. "I’m, I’m sorry that you don’t have all the pieces. I don’t know whether that’s because of the consequences of…of this place, or if there’s some other reason behind it. Some being, or rules, that actually are above our pay grade. But, based on my kinda limited research? None of these tasks are something you haven’t dealt with before, okay?”

He turned his head to catch Quentin’s eye, but he was staring up at the overcast sky.

He felt Quentin shift a little bit. His voice was very low, flowing with that quiet, slightly embarrassed cadence he always used right before he talked about himself. “So, not spoiling anything, but…whenever I’ve had to do something, something with big magical shenanigans, has it always been…worth it? Like, some good…thing was gonna come out of it in the end?”

Ooooooooooooh nononononono that was not –

He’d forgotten how Q could sometimes short-circuit his brain just as easily. And this Q didn’t even _know_ he was doing it. Motherfuck…where was Fen with the colorful curse words when you needed her…

_Answer carefully. You better answer fuckin’ carefully._

 “I…I think…answering _that_ …was something that, that you figured out for yourself. I don’t think we ever talked about it.”

Not in this life, at least. Not after Blackspire.

They both sighed heavily, almost at the exact same time. Silence settled over them as the daylight dimmed.

Quentin started to tense up. Eliot could practically hear the wheels in his head turning. He prayed that he hadn’t said the wrong thing just for the sake of not saying too much.

A few seconds later, Quentin said, “I should be good now.” He started shifting his legs, pushing off of the ground.

Crap, of course. Eliot’d been acting like the world’s clingiest octopus. He scrambled up after him, moving a more appropriate distance away. His waistcoat had ridden up. He tugged it back down.

Quentin shot him a few nervous glances.

_Way to go, Eliot. Using any excuse to feel up the amnesiac? That chalkboard in the Happy Place apparently still had some blank spaces._

“Not that I wasn’t – I’m not saying I’m not okay with– ” Quentin babbled, reaching out to take his pants down from the tree branch.

“Sorry, I’ve always been a – ”

They both stopped, bit their lips, and looked away.

“It’s just, I’m, I’m not someone who, just, um, falls on people like that.”

Eliot frowned. “You mind telling me whether it was my natural charisma? Or was it –” he glanced at the tree, “whatever it was that happened down there?”

He didn’t expect Quentin to grin and chuckle a few times, looking away into the forest.

“What?” A smile was tugging at his cheek too.

“I, um, I had this fear. That it was all a dream. Just like you said I might.”

“So?”

Quentin rolled his eyes, his mouth unable to decide whether it was going to grimace or smirk. He scuffed his feet in the mud. “So I didn’t sleep last night to make sure.”

“Uh huh.”

“Top that off with an eternity of army-crawling through some muddy tunnels AND what happened down there, and…”

Eliot waited.

“Tada, I passed out. But, um, turns out I got all worked up over nothing. I woke up right after, with…um….with….uh…with everything still the same.” Quentin snuck a look at him, and then his eyes darted away. His ears were turning red. “So, yeah.”

Ugh, he couldn’t take this. Eliot’s twenty-yet-ninety-something heart was gonna give out if Q looked at him like that again.

Except for the cropped haircut, it was like Quentin from the past was peeking out from present-Q’s face, fresh out of his first few classes at Brakebills.

Like the weight of the past four years (and a time paradox in between) had never embedded itself in his shoulders.

“Can’t say it wasn’t a legit thing to be scared of,” Eliot murmured, trying to keep himself in check. He ducked his head, and eyeballed the pile of clothes on the ground. Quentin saw where he was looking too. Eliot hastily bent down and snagged them up. “Oh, um, unexpected thunderstorm happened while you were down there. I very, very nobly tried to, you know. But I don’t think this thing could be saved even if it hadn’t been put through the ringer.”

The other man stared unblinking at the bundle in his hands, and didn’t move to take it. After a long moment, he said, “You said my dad died. Last night, down in the labyrinth.”

How did…wait…this suit…this wasn’t his dad’s, was it?

All of the _Shiiiiiiiit_ s going off in his head were in Margo’s voice. The Monster must’ve burned off his last “tact” brain cell at some point.

Eliot looked down. “I wasn’t there. Julia told me.”

“She tell you anything else?”

Eliot shook his head. He and Julia had swapped some shouting matches with each other, when he’d started pointing fingers about who was to blame for the mess he'd woken up to. Of course, every accusation was really just to get people to scream at him some more. Margo saw right through it, and when she got sick of bringing him tea to sooth his raw throat, she put a stop to it.

Quentin put his hands on his hips and bobbed his head in an awkward nod. “Guess that’s okay then.”

“How so?”

“My dad’s been dead for a while, here. But, I guess, whether it’s been a while or if it was yesterday or a few weeks…” His hands fell from his hips, and he went over, taking the pile from Eliot. He stared down at the tie, rubbing it with his fingers. “It’s good to know that the grief’s real. The details aren’t the same. But the emotion’s something I can trust.”

“Yeah. Totally.”

_Fucking hell._

Quentin blinked a few times, swaying a little. “So what’s the next thing?” he asked, biting back a yawn.

“What?”

Quentin pointed off in some random direction that was probably the labyrinth. “The next task, or whatever? You here to tell me?”

“Yyyyyyyes. You, though, need to at least go take a nap. And eat. And take a nice long soak in a bath tub.”

It was only partially bullshit. He knew some of the next steps, could probably give some more instructions if he needed to. But Alice was the one with the mojo, and she wasn’t here right now. He may be a culinary genius, but he hadn’t brought anything remotely edible. There was also no way he was letting Quentin near Part Two until he was better rested.

Quentin opened his mouth. Eliot then saw, in real-time, the realization that he was standing in front of another person in his underwear strike him like a semi-truck. Watching him grapple with whether he should bother putting everything back on was just as entertaining. After this went on for a while, Eliot made a brave decision.

“I’d offer to turn my back,” Eliot said in a low voice, “but Daddy loves a show.”

Quentin flushed so fast he practically got sunburn, and he actually dropped most of the clothes back on the ground. His eyes jerked to look at the clock tree, like he was debating going behind it.

Then he gave Eliot some delicious direct eye contact while he slid one foot into each pant leg and slowly, _slowly_ zipped them closed over a certain bulge Eliot knew _very_ well. Bending down to get his shirt next, Quentin wet his lips as he met his eyes again, sliding one sleeve on, then the other. He even had the ingenuity to take much, much more time with the shirt buttons, his breathing a little heavy as he ghosted his fingers over his own stomach, all the way up to his chest and neck. He didn’t bother with the coat, but hedonistically looped the tie in a loose knot around his neck, trailing a touch over his pulse, his Adam’s apple, his jaw.

Two minutes ago Eliot thought he saw Quentin from four years ago. Now he was faced with the Quentin who’d leaned over and kissed him on their first anniversary.

Eliot wanted, _needed,_ to do something with his hands. He tugged his waistcoat down as far as it could go.

If Q could make putting clothes on look like _that,_ well, Eliot could give as good as he got. He kept up the game, crouching down languidly to grab the man’s shoes, socks, and the coat. His eyes never left Quentin’s dark pupils as he rested there, staring all the way up, like he was kneeling before a reward. His legs leisurely pushed him up to his full height, inch by contesting inch, until he was looming over him again, much closer than when he’d started, their chests only an inch apart. He let the sound of their breathing fill the space between them.

To claim the win, he said, “Now let’s get you back.”

Quentin cleared his throat, and gave a nod Eliot was probably reading too much into. The pressure in the air dissolved when he ducked around to get the bundle he dropped earlier. “Don’t know if you should come with me all the way. There’s patrols all over the woods.”

“Patrols?”

“Yeah,” Quentin grunted as he stood, stretching his back. “I snuck into the woods alone, and if a bunch of The Fox’s men are out there, I don’t think I can explain away a –”

“Drop-dead gorgeous mysterious stranger? With a voice like one of those haunting ballads from Blackstar?”

“Sure,” Quentin said, quirking his eyebrow.

“So tell me how far to take you, and I’ll hide behind a tree until I see you’re safe and sound,” Eliot said, and he started to walk down the rise of the hill.

It took a couple moments, but Eliot soon heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He smiled to himself, and halved his gait until he was the one a step behind. _The Binder_ was tucked under Quentin’s arm now, as Eliot hadn’t deigned to grab it when he’d set out. Quentin was also cinching the ties of the pouch closed again, apparently having transferred the contents of the bundle to a safer home.

The dark was settling in. The beaten path was getting hard to follow. They both stumbled every once in a while as they pushed through the ferns. If Quentin reached out a few times when he lost his balance, and if Eliot was there to offer an arm, it wasn’t exactly without cause, but neither of them remarked on it. He wasn’t sure whether the possibility of encountering these “patrols” meant they had to keep things quiet, but any further banter by this point might just make things awkward anyway. Right now, the quiet felt good. Companionable.

And it was an excuse to make sure he kept fighting the urge to shove Q up against the nearest tree and kiss him senseless.

Some time later, Quentin brought them to a halt, his ears keyed to any other sound besides their breathing. They’d actually gotten closer than Eliot’d expected – he could see the side of the lodge from here. He’d be able to find the labyrinth again, provided he circled around the perimeter without getting caught. Quentin turned around, signaling the end of their little walk by pointing at Eliot and then drawing a line to the trunk of a nearby fir tree.

Eliot surrendered the last of Quentin’s clothes and his shoes, and bit back a chuckle as Quentin tried to figure out how to carry everything with only two hands. When he saw Eliot’s face, Q glared at him, daring him to say something. Eliot wordlessly waved the glare away with a few flicks of his wrist, raising his eyebrows and projecting innocence. Once everything was finally settled, Eliot gave a small bow of his head and took a step toward the tree.

“So, you’ll come get me?” Quentin asked softly.

Eliot could hear him trying to hide the uncertainty in his voice. “Probably Alice will,” he replied, turning back around. “You said it yourself: it’d be hard to get just me in and then both of us out.”

“’Kay. Um, you wouldn’t happen to be able to do anything about this then, would you?” He gestured up and down his whole body.

Eliot had about seven different things he could say about that, but gamely kept his mouth shut on account of the possible presence of nearby soldiers, and another glare from a certain supernerd. At least Q was getting better at reading him. “If I had the magic, I would’ve used it a _long_ time ago,” he offered instead, eyeing where the mud had soaked through several large sections on both of their clothes.

Quentin looked up with a self-deprecating smile, his tone airy and light. “It’s fine. It’s just my funeral. My mother’s gonna kill me when she sees.”

He reeeeally needed to talk with Quentin about saying things like that. All he managed in reply was a weak “ha.”

Quentin seemed to sense he’d said something off. His eyebrows creased, and he stepped forward, reaching out even though he didn’t know the right words.

This was the part of the conversation where Eliot was supposed to say goodbye. They’d been winding up to it. Time to do the socially expected thing. Never mind that these goodbyes were getting harder, despite already being impossible.

Eliot pushed down everything threatening to well up inside him, pushed it down down down down DOWN DOWN in a box in a safe at the bottom of the ocean on a planet being sucked into a black hole.

He was just gonna put a cap on all of it, because Quentin. Was. On. His. Way. Out. Of. This. Hell. Today was a victory, in every way that mattered.

( _And even some of the ones that didn’t, in the grand scheme of things, because Eliot was a selfish bastard._ )

So Eliot borrowed one of his own moves, put his hand on Q’s shoulder, and said, “Go bravely,” in a way he hoped Q would take as merely joining in on the joke. He even licked his thumb, and rubbed a bit of the mud off the man’s cheek.

Yes, he’d already used this on a mental projection. But it was a good move. And underneath, Eliot meant it. Meant all of the sentiment and subtext behind it. He wanted to return the words, like they were lent to him by someone who now needed them back.

Quentin narrowed his eyes. His gaze dropped to Eliot’s lips once. Twice. Before he could take his hand back, Quentin placed his own over Eliot’s and kept it on the edge of his jaw. He curled his fingers around his palm, and squeezed. An echo of the moment down in the labyrinth, but just for them alone.

A heartbeat passed between them.

“Don’t take too long,” Q said.

He let Eliot’s hand fall, and he turned around to head down the slope without another word.

Damn. And Eliot thought he was the king of good exit lines. 

_I won't, my -_

_I won't, Q. I promise._

Eliot made for the tree, his eyes never leaving the back of Quentin’s mud-caked head. His heart leapt into his throat five minutes later when several voices exploded into the air, and he saw the shapes of a dozen men circle Quentin’s small figure, rifles at the ready.

Maybe he did take Eliot’s words to heart after all. He raised his arms in surrender without trembling, and although Eliot could barely hear him, the distant hum of his voice was even and controlled. Some of the guards pressed in on him, yanking _The Binder_ away and rifling through its blank pages. They checked his pockets, found the pouch, and started interrogating him. Many of them gathered around and began to escort him down the hill, pushing and shoving and barking their questions like a pack of bloodhounds, while two stayed behind to point their guns in Eliot’s direction. He ducked back behind the tree.

It was a solid ten minutes before he dared to move. It was mostly just edging in increments down to the ground so he wasn’t standing the whole time. Once he secured the lead in _Crouching Eliot, Hidden Dumbass_ , he played a Les Mis song (or five) in his head before he planted his ass on the ground and peeked back around the trunk. The last two soldiers had pulled out a pack of cigarettes and sat on a large rock facing the lodge.

Okay, so all he needed to do was call up a few of his old hunting lessons and he shouldn’t have too hard a time. Would it be too much to ask for The Great Cock to make a surprise appearance? Probably. Would the laser focus necessary for sneaking through the woods also keep him from going after Quentin anyway, fuck the consequences, because he was already missing him like a phantom limb? Almost. By a hair's breadth.

Later, after he'd circled around and doubled back and finally got back to the labyrinth, he tugged Julia’s notebook out of his shirt. He pushed his curls out of his face, flipping between the pages again and again, anything to put off the deadline of the Dragon’s Breath dose. In the end, there wasn’t much to stick around for, anyway. Margo was bound to have beaten a few answers out of Penny40 by now.

Besides, that Arbitrary Magical Bullshit deadline was real, and the sooner he left this place, the sooner he could come back and they could sneak Q away again.

He threaded the chain of the pocket watch between his fingers, playing with the little links as he used his other hand to take the Dragon’s Breath. The little timepiece even traveled with him, despite its Underworld origins, as he returned to the conference room of the Nietherlands Library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only just found out that Cornelia Funke wrote a YA novelization of Pan's Labyrinth?! There I was, skimming the shelves of Barnes and Noble this weekend, and lo and behold...
> 
> I was tempted to buy it, not gonna lie, but I'm thinking I'll wait 'til after this whole thing's done. Mostly I'm bringing it up for those of you who may not be able to get your hands on the movie but may be interested in the story. I dunno if it counts as spoiling yourself for THIS story if you read the novelization, but never hurts to mention that either, I guess. To those of you who do end up picking up the book, enjoy! I know we don't say judge a book by its cover, but the cover's so pretty...and the illustrations are B. E. A. UTIFUL.
> 
> Also just warning you, my life in the next few weeks is going to get crazy busy, so if I'm late posting new chapters for a while, that's why. Apologies in advance!


	11. The Walls Close In

The McAllisters were dominating the conversation at the dinner table. Julia drowned them out into background noise. Not one syllable of the drivel they spewed - the simply _superb_ dresses a new city shop had in its front window, and how _marvelous_ the country air was out here – would be of any use to her. Her ears perked up a little when Zelda began fielding their questions about the new ration cards she'd brought. It was downright chilling, first to hear that the Order’d decided to hand out only one ration card per family, and then to hear the McAllisters agree heartily with the decision while they served themselves a third helping of potatoes and summer squash.

Well, more like they beckoned with a flick of their fingers and Julia supplied them from a platter as she made her way around the room. She turned away to place the dish on the side board, then moved to pour Doctor Fogg his second glass of wine.

“The ration cards keep everything fair,” Edwin McAllister noted. “And surely they keep the Hedge recruitment numbers down?”

Reynard, who sat at the head of the table, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and set his fork aside. “It’s just one of the tactics we use.”

Julia swallowed down the bile climbing up her throat. Reynard was trying to sound _modest_.

The Fox went on. “Our presence here alone has already turned the tide in the Order’s favor. Just today, we found a freshly abandoned campfire, where one of the Hedges fled without their lottery ticket.” He held up a slip of paper, pausing as laughter erupted around the table, then said, “They’re losing ground. We also confirmed they’re suffering from either illnesses or infected wounds, rather than merely hoping for it. Weakened bodies have a tendency to weaken spirits.”

Doctor Fogg leaned forward. “How do you know they’re ill?”

“We found this,” Reynard answered, and produced a small glass vial. He held it up to the dinner party, the light from the chandelier glinting off its surface and the liquid inside. “A whole package of antibiotics, tossed into the ashes of the fire.”

Doctor Fogg nodded in satisfaction. He caught Julia’s eye as he turned his head to spoon more stew into his mouth. Julia flicked her eyes away, sweat trickling an icy trail down her back.

Irene leaned forward towards Reynard. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to assist you, captain. You’re protecting our families, inspiring the citizens. We know you didn’t come out to _this_ corner of the world by choice.”

Julia saw the Librarian peer over her spectacles at Irene. Several people, like the local clergyman, were nodding in agreement, although others were apparently more aware of their precarious status in the room.

Reynard raised an eyebrow, and the choice not to smile conveyed a whole message on its own.

He leaned forward, and addressed everyone. “I wouldn’t use that word. ‘Choice’ doesn’t quite cover it.” He gestured at Jane, who sat demure at his right hand. “I want my son to grow up in a world where the Order has washed everything clean. A world where chaos exists only in the stories we tell children, as a way to caution them and help them learn their lessons. The Order’s victory is ensured, and that new, purified stability is right on our doorstep. Being here, to crush those that threaten what I want for my son? I guess on the one hand, I am certainly here by choice. I choose to fight for the world we all want. On the other, it almost doesn’t feel like a choice whatsoever. If I have to kill them all, so be it. There is no other alternative.”

He raised his wineglass, and everyone except the Librarian hastened to raise theirs too. Zelda allowed a pleased nod in Reynard’s direction.

 “We chose The Order. We are all here by choice,” Reynard toasted.

The echoed response sounded around the table. That trail of sweat down Julia’s back wasn’t getting any easier to deal with. Jane had raised her glass along with everyone else, but as Julia looked at her, her stomach started to turn. Quentin’s face swam in front of her eyes. He’d been missing all day, ever since their chat in the garden.

The platters of chicken and vegetables soon dwindled down to a point where it was excusable for Julia to duck down into the kitchen. Silver and Gummidgy were busy icing several small tarts, topping them with cream and berries. They saw the look on her face and rushed over.

She wanted to take the comfort they were offering. There was a burning under her skin, a corroding thing she thought she had left behind years ago. Silver’s face was as much a terrible reminder as it was a balm.

With a quick apology and a plastered smile, her friends accepted her request to put on a pot of coffee while she went outside for more firewood. Silver handed her a lantern with a fresh candle. Her face was full of worry, but she seemed to know it was better to provide distance. Gummidgy opened up the door for her without a word, and Julia thanked them both as earnestly as she could manage.

Her shawl flapped in the air as she set a quick pace, and she tugged both ends of it close to her chest to keep the chill away. The cloudy sky was stained a bruise-blue, and what little light remained was blocked by most of the trees. She passed soldiers loitering in the grass, keeping her head appropriately bowed low.

The woodpile was on the edge of the lodge’s grounds, on the crest of the east hill beyond the garden. She reached it just as her breathing started to hitch. Telling herself to keep breathing, just keep breathing, was about as effective as using water to put out a grease fire. This kind of panic, mixed with fury, was too intense for tears. Pressure built in her head. Some tiny, clearheaded line of thought managed to tell her to set the lantern down.

The shawl was too tight. Any layer on her skin felt too tight, too heavy. She yanked it off and chucked it away.

She missed Shoshana. She hadn’t known her for very long, but she’d been a voice, a guide. There was something – enviable, maybe? – about a person whose very purpose in life involved screaming at the top of her lungs and running off into the woods at a moment notice. She would scream now, wanted to so badly that her body shook with it, but for the fact that doing so would only imprison her further.

Ever since that day, the day she’d secured the last stone in the fountain…And settled the last labyrinth wall into place…And dedicated so much to making each of Quentin’s three tasks…

It’d been like weaving three incredibly detailed tapestries, by hand, each stitch and line of yarn perfectly in place. And then taking those three tapestries and fashioning them into one Sistine Chapel of a spell that her mind had barely managed to hold on to, but managed in the end, somehow, for Q’s sake…

Only for the final piece to fail. And having no idea why.

The reverse-engineered Siphon had died not long after. Being cut off from magic, _again,_ was impossible to get used to, no matter how many times it'd happened to her. Like the universe was a cruel child, and she was the starfish who kept having to regrow her own limbs after the child kept ripping them off. She would’ve turned into a proper maenad the day the Siphon died, if The Binder hadn’t talked her out of losing her mind. But Julia was back in that headspace now. She wanted to tear at her clothes, tear at herself, tear at the foul _creatures_ below congratulating themselves on the deaths to come.

Q was missing. Even though she had no idea how she was going to get him out of here, at least she’d found him, had been protecting him as much as she could. Where was he?!

Because in order to protect him, she’d had to pledge herself to another cause.

And it was real. This holding plane, this crisis-on-a-knife’s-point of a pseudo-Underworld – even as familiar faces danced before her eyes every waking minute, even as some of her memories faded and bled away into oblivion at night – wasn’t going to get better without her. And it wasn’t going to get the better of her.

So she did what she came out here to do.

Grabbing the lantern, she turned to face the dark line of trees and held it close to her chest. She passed her hand in front of its forward-facing window. Once, twice, three times, holding it long for the fourth, and finishing with five rapid flashes on the fifth.

There. Signal sent.

She gathered air into her lungs until her chest hurt, nearly bursting with it. As it trickled back out of her nose, she thought she saw a glimmer in the distance. But it was high in the air? Perhaps a flare? Had the Hedges – ?!

It was a golden cloud now, not a mere single flash.

NO.

_EscapedfromtheSeamShe’sbackGoingtostuffmeintoacoffininmymindNONONONonononono–_

The golden dust halted as soon as she merely thought to start running away. It condensed into a single, soccer ball sized sphere, hovering and swirling, but made no move to continue towards her. If anything, it was almost leaning away.

It had to be a trick.

The cloud knew she was here, maybe could even read her thoughts. When the Monster’s sister had possessed her, it’d moved faster than thought. If she ran now, it might not make a difference.

She pressed her lips together until they were almost bleeding, pinched her nose shut, curled into a ball, shut her eyes, closing off any way in. And, because it was an old habit, she prayed.

But _she_ would have just taken her over again. No hesitation, no tricks. Just the brute **_force_** crawling down her throat around every nerve and memory until control (no, her very _self_ ) was wrenched away. Julia’d been catapulted into a miasma of memories and shadows, before. Nothing stopped the process. It’d been over before it began.

But here, nothing happened. For a solid eight minutes. She counted. 

Hell, were none of the soldiers below even remotely paying attention? Not that she wanted them to, but…

She looked up. The god magic had descended to her level. No closer. Still waiting.

Turning hear head down the hill revealed that time had stopped. Like it always did at the whim of the divine.

Goddamnit.

Fuck. When _wasn’t_ she curious, in spite of everything?

And the tiniest part of her wanted to hope that it was here to help.

“Hello?”

No response.

She stood, and it rose with her. Her muscles tensed to take a step forward. The swirl loosened itself.

She halted. It withdrew.

She took a step back, and it floated backwards.

“Okay…”

The closer she got, the more it dilated. When she was about ten feet away, it started to look like an amoeba. At eight feet, it’d thinned out, but four outer sections resembled limbs. Every step she took, it grew harder to see but easier to comprehend. It copied the length of her stride, the tilt of her hips, the swing of her arms, and grew to resemble a thin, golden, upright shadow of her body. Two feet away, and it had the outline of a skirt and a low loose bun of hair.

The hair on the back of her neck was standing up. As if a thunderstorm charged the air and a bolt of lighting was going to strike her any second, a haze of _feeling_ crept at the edges of her mind. Like a memory of a memory, of the sixth sense, the _Awareness_ of all things alive and dead, that’d followed every second she spent as a goddess.

That feeling had tugged at her so often, once. Compelling her to slip into that stream of prayers, like she was a law of the universe, sharing regeneration and flooding _life_ into seedlings and injuries and –

She shook herself out of it, and the golden figure before her wavered.

_I’m not ready to become that again!_

The figure lost its shape, condensing back into the cloud. She felt a wave of loss at the sight. She may not have been ready…but she’d been robbed of the choice to be ready. By the Monster, and his sister. By The Binder, and Penny.

She realized, then, that she’d never really explored what happened to the power of a god after, well, whatever came after for them when they died. Beyond imbuing it into a weapon, like the bullet, or that sword Q used to kill…kill…that one god….um…what was his name?

Well, anyway, she didn’t know what could be done with it. Or, well: what _was_ done with it. Did it simply fade, leeching back into the fabric of reality? Did it go back to the Wellspring, to power Magic once again?

And what happened to the power stripped away from a human-goddess hybrid, without her consent? Where did it go?

To the Underworld? To find the being who’d shaped it, nurtured it, made it her own?

_I’m not ready. But it’s here._

_I don’t want it to leave yet_.

The golden cloud drifted over to her shawl as if pushed by a breeze. It settled over the threads like pollen, and when it sank into the fibers and disappeared, power flickered off of the cloth in a single ripple.

It _was_ hers.

Her power. Or, at least some of it.

Ready for her, if ever she _was_ ready.

She might need it, to get Q out of here, to protect him from Reynard or the Order. If it was life or death…she would accept the consequences of making that choice.

_But I’m not there yet. I still have options. I can still do things as a human._

She picked the bundle up and settled it back around her shoulders. That _Awareness_ prickled at her again, and a warmth settled over her back.

Things felt a little more _right_. Not entirely. But just enough.

Time resumed. Mosquitoes whined in the twilight despite the recent rain. Skittering rustles sounded as squirrels darted across the branches.

And a cacophony of soldiers shouting drowned all that out. She snatched the lantern close, rushing back over to pick out a few wet logs, and started back down the hill. On her way, she spied a horde of men bumbling down the slope nearby. They were jostling someone in the center, shouting questions without waiting for any answers.

It was Q!

But he looked terrible, like a mud slide had chewed him up and spit him back out again. Julia ran over, speeding in front of the soldiers.

“Quentin! Thank goodness!” she called as loudly as possible.

Several pairs of eyes snapped in her direction, and they gathered in front of her like a swarm of hornets. A few of them were so trigger-happy, or perhaps eager to please their captain, that they swiveled their rifles toward her. Either these men didn’t recognize Julia for her position in the house, or they didn’t care.

Reynard may have her sweating bullets, but these guys had nothing on her. “Where were you?” she asked Quentin, like they were the only two people in the clearing.

“Ma’am, step aside,” an officer said. He had the same face as the dryad whose forest she’d burned down. She tried her best not to stare.

“Your mom was worried sick. I was about to start a search party,” she said. She scooted around those blocking her path, reaching out for Quentin despite the logs under her arm.

The officer bristled. “This man is on his way to an interrogation. Get back.”

Julia didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, God, look at you! You fall into a ditch somewhere? The river?”

“Stop speaking to the prisoner!”

That, Julia allowed, was enough to earn her attention. She turned to Dryad Face and kept her voice pleasant, just a few degrees above what she’d use to speak to a child. “You do know who this is, don’t you? He’s the captain’s stepson.”

Another officer held up a small pouch. This one…holy crap. He looked just like that ass-kisser Tick. Same mustache, same ears, same smug voice. She was never going to get used to this. All these faces that she knew, but who didn’t know her from dirt.

“Seven keys were found on his person, and a journal,” Tick said. He puffed up his chest, which was blatantly covered in every medal he’d been given for his service.

_He said ‘keys?’_

If they were, impossibly, _those_ keys, then she had to divert the soldiers’ attention away from them at all costs, then get them back as soon as possible. Q’s life depended on it. And it had something to do with her power finding her again, she didn’t have the time to speculate. Or hope.

“What’s wrong with taking a journal for a walk in the woods?” she asked, eyeing the book. A meek private was holding it gingerly with both hands, like it might explode.  

 “Spying for the Hedges,” Tick insisted, and his beady eyes narrowed. “Troop movements. How well we’re supplied. Weak points in our defenses.”

What. The Hell.

For a split second, Julia almost began to wonder if Quentin…

But they would’ve let her know…Or Fogg would’ve…yeah, no, so unless these brutes planted all this on Q like cops doing a frisk and search, it’s not possible.

_So that means there’s the chance my spells might have finally started kicking in._

“All that? In there?” She moved her lantern to her other hand and pointed at the book. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that familiar white title on its spine. Something like joy sparked through her, but there was terror too.

She couldn’t understand. Why today? After SO LONG –

Dryad Face leaned down, his face close enough for Julia to start judging him on his skincare routine. “If anything’s written down, it becomes a security risk.”

Q was shrewdly not saying anything. They hadn’t bound his hands together, but it was clear if he even thought about lowering his arms out of surrender, something might get broken. Maybe he’d offered some made-up excuses when they first found him. If so, Julia wouldn’t want to accidentally poke holes in his story.

It was time to double down.

“Anything?” Without waiting for an answer, she yanked the book out of the meek soldier’s hands, leaning it on her forearm to flip through a few tellingly blank pages.

Dryad Face snatched it back, which knocked the logs to the ground, but that just grounded her further in bravado. As tense as this moment was, there was some comfort in it. If there was a knack for navigating shark infested waters, she had it. Had always had it.

“Those pages are all blank!” she said.

Tick sniffed, and started to go on about the _intent_ of writing things down being just as dangerous.

Julia put her hand on her hips and interrupted, “So you’d rather a school teacher, what? Stop practicing the skills he’s supposed to pass onto his students? Students who’re the future of our country? Who we need to protect from the ignorance and disorder of the Hedges?”

Quentin raised an eyebrow at her and pressed his lips together, his familiar “what the fuck are you doing” face. Julia batted her eyelashes, but inside she was dealing with more knots in her stomach than a competition for fly-fishing. This gamble she was playing was all about the bluff, not having the winning hand.

All of the soldiers who hadn’t pointed their guns at her turned their heads to the officers. They’d probably pull out popcorn if they had it. Or knew what it was.

“Or maybe his writing ends up being some kind of historical record, a peek at the past, for the future generations to study? Wouldn’t you want someone to know how the Hedges were defeated? What it was really like?” she insisted.

“I was just doing a scavenger hunt?” Quentin said out of the blue. “For the kids. Which I haven’t met yet. But I was, just, um, hiding them for later. And then I got lost, and slipped and fell.”

Julia stared at him, snapping her mouth shut.

One soldier snickered.

Tick took that as an excuse to grin. “And how do we know these keys aren’t for our storeroom? The back door? The front door? The captain’s very bedroom?”

“I can help with that,” Julia piped up. She hadn't used this kind of pesky perkiness since she was class president in tenth grade.

Every single key from the house sat on a large metal ring she had hooked on her belt at all times. She held it up now. “First of all, the captain has the only copy of the storage room key,” she lied. “And second, we can compare them to what I have on here.”

Tick held his hand out, like he expected her to just take the ring off and she would hand it to him. She did no such thing.

“I can have someone tear them off you, girl,” Tick snarled, “A few bruises ought to teach you a lesson.”

“And if the captain or his wife sees me weeping uncontrollably? Unable to serve them, because one of his officers couldn’t keep his hands to himself? What DO you think they’ll do? Especially since the guest of honor tonight is a Librarian,” she said sweetly.

Dryad Face swallowed, and he put a hand on Tick’s shoulder. With his other hand, he plucked the pouch out of Tick’s grip and opened it. She, in turn, spread out all of the keys like a lady’s fan, and held them up.

Relief bloomed inside her when the Vision key was held up and put next to the ones on the ring. Her magic _had_ kicked in. Something had sparked it off, and Q may not know it yet, but he was one step closer to getting out of here. She could have crowed like Peter Pan if there weren’t a million reasons not to right now.

Naturally, it didn’t take long for them to see what she already knew, that none of the golden ones could possibly be duplicates –

 _Technically they_ were _duplicates, because she didn’t design them to do what the originals did._

– since each of the keys on the ring were either large chunks of iron, like those for a door, or the dulled brass for drawers or cabinets. Dryad Face still took the time to look at them one by one. She could see all the arguments he was losing in his head: the teeth on the golden keys were in wildly different shapes; the locks they belonged to couldn’t possibly belong to something found in such a rural, underprivileged place like the lodge and its lands.

She had another belittling, annoyingly naive question to ask, but she hoped Q might pick up the subtext under the surface: _Lie now, and tell me the truth later._

“Where would you get keys like those, anyway?” she said while the Unity key was being inspected. “Maybe not the best things to go burying in the ground?”

Quentin’s eyes twitched, and he looked over her shoulder rather than meet her eyes. “From my dad’s shop. I brought them with me out here. Little piece of home, I guess,” he murmured.

Jane’d once told Julia that Ted Coldwater had run an antiques store before he got drafted, so she could back that up in case the soldiers didn’t believe him.

_But oh, Quentin, 'little pieces of home?' Really?!_

“Alright, I’ve seen enough,” Dryad Face sighed. He put the final key, Truth, back in the pouch and chucked it at Quentin. It bounced off his chest and fell to the ground, and he had to scramble to pick it up.

Tick made a bunch of protesting noises, but Dryad Face pulled him aside, and started to talk quietly in his ear. Julia wasn’t the best at lip reading, but she definitely caught “don’t want last night to happen again” among all the other sentences. And whatever had happened last night was enough to scare Tick into begrudging acceptance, 'cause he shut his mouth right after.

Dryad Face turned to Quentin, “Your lack of consideration wasted the time of the Order’s army. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m…very sorry. For my lack of consideration.”

“I should hope so, coward,” Tick said. “If you were a soldier, you would live and _breathe_ consideration for the Order like the rest of us.”

Julia saw Quentin clench his jaw.

“You’re right,” he said, the life draining out of his voice. “I am a coward.”

Everything inside Julia was dying tell him he was wrong, but it was safer to stay quiet.

Tick nodded in satisfaction, and began to march back up the hill, his nose in the air. The guns lowered, and the men holding them began to fall in formation behind him. One spat on the ground, every step seething with resentment. Dryad Face was the last to go, and he shoved _The Binder_ back into Quentin’s arms as he slunk away.

It was dead quiet for a few moments, the awkward and unspoken _What now?_ hanging in the air between them. Julia went over to put an arm around Quentin’s shoulder.

“Whew, that was close,” she said, leading him towards the back of the house.

She couldn’t tell whether the kitchen was empty. Silver and Gummidgy might’ve already served dessert without her, but the excuse for her tardiness was busy shaking like a leaf next to her.

As she drew them closer to the threshold, it was all she could do not to start pelting Quentin with her own questions. He somehow had the Binder, had the keys, had asked her just this morning about Alice and Eliot. How had all this happened, completely outside her perception and control?

He would have to tell her later. She’d get it out of him as soon as he wasn’t seconds from falling apart.

“Easy, you’re alright now,” she hushed, moving her hand back and forth along his back.

“Your…you forgot your – ,” he said.

“You’re more important,” she said.

Together, they emerged into the light of the kitchen, and Silver cried out in shock at the sight of them, lurching up from her seat in front of the fire.

“Julia! What happened?!”

“He got lost in the woods,” she replied.

Q was starting to shut down. His eyes were empty and far away, and he almost looked as bad as…as…that one time when she’d…

What _had_ she done to him once? Was it some kind of…trick? With Mar – Mary? Marcy? Marney? – helping her?

No, she had to worry about that later.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Corrigan, she’s been so worried,” Silver insisted, halfway up the main kitchen stairs already.

Julia shook her head. “I’m supposed to be in there anyway. Can you take him up the back way? And get a bath started?”

“Glad to,” Silver said, lurching back down and taking her place at Quentin’s side.

Quentin started to wobble on his feet. Silver was a good foot taller than him, so it was no trouble for her to hoist his arm around her shoulder and trot him over to the side stairs. She launched into cooing at him with reassurances that he was home now, safe and sound, and would be cleaned up in a jiffy, and oh, his poor suit, Silver would wash and press it herself, poor thing.  

Julia sighed, rubbing at her mouth. Did she have time to go check the labyrinth for any sign of the others? Some way to explain how all of this was suddenly happening?

Of course not. There were murderers to serve. A cover to maintain.

She snatched a cloth from a rack, using it to lift the coffee pot off of the fire and pour its contents into a silver tea set. Balancing the tray with cream, sugar, and saucers, she clambered back towards the dining room as Gummidgy emerged from the double doors, licking cream from his fingers. Before he could say anything, Julia quickly explained what she could, and asked him to go help Silver. He sped away without another word.

Jane was speaking as Julia entered. She was smiling - a soft, rare thing, and probably a little forced considering her audience. Someone – Irene, most likely – must’ve asked her how she and the captain had met, because she described the circumstances vaguely, but tried to make it sound romantic. She placed her hand over Reynard’s, a gesture of their union, and looked him in the eyes for a second.

Reynard withdrew his hand, asking forgiveness from everyone at the table and pointedly not looking at Jane. His wife indulged too much in the romantic, he explained, and knew better than to bore anyone with her fancies.

Julia watched Jane’s face close down as she offered an apologetic smile of her own. It was all a dance, Julia thought. Or, really, it was a fight. And even with this small skirmish, Reynard seemed to have found victory again. Julia had her fears about how Jane and Reynard had actually “found” each other. When it came to Reynard, usually suspecting the worse was the closest way to get to the truth.

Thankfully, Jane saw Julia as she looked away. Julia placed the tray of coffee on a side table and stepped forward, asking permission to approach. After a quick nod, she was by Jane’s side in an instant.

“Quentin’s been found,” she said in her ear, keeping her voice at a whisper as the McAllisters not-so-subtly leaned in.

Jane sharply inhaled. “Is he hurt?”

“No, just badly shaken. Shall I take you to him?”

Jane nodded, and then addressed the table. “Please excuse me, everyone.”

She grasped the wheels of her wheelchair as if to start out of the room, but then her hands clenched as she remembered. Julia grimaced, knowing how much Jane wanted to damn propriety and race out to see her son. As quickly as she could, she went over and grasped the handles of the chair, turning Jane toward the doors. Doctor Fogg rose out of his seat politely, and the rest of the group followed his example.

Closing the large double doors, she turned to see Jane already clambering out of her wheelchair and grabbing the banister. She hoisted herself up one stair at a time, mindful of her dress since her stomach hid her feet. Julia huffed at the sight. Her mixed feelings about Jane aside, there was something admirable about how quickly she wanted to see Q for herself.

They met Silver at the top of the stairs, Julia trailing behind as she heaved the wheelchair up. Silver was closing the bedroom door, and she held Quentin’s mucked up suit gingerly away from her. Jane stopped short when she saw this.

“You said he wasn’t hurt,” Jane said, trying to keep her voice steady, and to keep the words from sounding too much like a question.

“Oh, he’s fine, ma’am,” Silver said, bobbing into a tiny curtsy. “The weather and the wilderness had their fun, but we’re putting him to rights. Don’t you worry.”

“Never hurts to worry,” Jane observed. There was a hint of steel in her voice, although Julia knew it was for Quentin rather than the well-meaning servant. She thanked Silver for her trouble as Gummidgy came out of the room next, two empty, steaming buckets in his hands.

“I’ll help you get more water in a second,” Julia promised him as she set the wheelchair back down.

Jane sat in it, and her eyes shone with a feverish gleam, perhaps from whatever illness upset her in the car yesterday, which Doctor Fogg’s medicines hadn’t quite beaten yet. She pushed herself into the bedroom without another word. As Silver moved to descend the stairs back down to the kitchen, she and Julia shared a glance. This wasn’t going to be an easy night.

Julia followed Jane into the room as she went to go knock on the bathroom door. Besides Quentin’s oxfords resting against the wall, things hadn’t changed since Julia had left it this morning. He must have hidden the keys and _The Binder_ somewhere, then. Judging by the emotions rolling off Jane in waves, she wasn’t going to be getting any answers out of Q about them for a while.

Jane pushed open the bathroom doors without waiting for an answer, and it spoke volumes that Quentin didn’t even call out in shock or protest at the invasion of privacy.

“Of all the inconsiderate things,” Jane said.

Julia knew she was expected to leave. She wasn’t Quentin’s best friend since childhood. She was just the housekeeper.

“Mom, I…”

“Didn’t think of the consequences of your actions? Believe me, I’m aware.”

The words bounced off the walls of the bathroom tiles with hollow echoes.

“It wasn’t – like that.”

“I fail to see how. I gave you _his_ suit. It was supposed to keep you here, keep you grounded, help you get through tonight. Instead you vanish, ruin it, and all the while I’m down there trying to save face for the man whose given us nothing but safety and security.”

Julia ground her teeth together. Reynard? Safe!?

_No, stop. She doesn’t know better. People defend their abusers._

“You’ve hurt me, Quentin. No matter what you say you were doing out in the woods, no matter what happened to you out there, that’s what it comes down to.”

There was a long pause, and Julia could hear the creak of the wheelchair as Jane shifted in her seat.

“Don’t come down for dinner. Your father’s disappointed enough for the both of us.”

Julia heard the creaks of the wheelchair come closer, like Jane was moving to leave the bathroom. She bit her lip as Quentin – brave Quentin, vindictive Quentin, hurt Quentin – asked, “Which one would that be?”

Jane froze, then shoved herself back into the bedroom. She eyed Julia for a moment, and went out the door.

She was supposed to follow.

Instead, she knocked softly on one of the bathroom doors.

“Q?”

He didn’t answer. She peeked her head in. Her best friend had a towel wrapped around his waist, his chest still plastered with mud, and he sat leaning against the cold radiator, his knees pulled up to his chest. A soft steam was rising out of the bathtub. It didn’t make the room any warmer.

“Hey,” Julia said. “I’ll bring you some food later, after I help Gummidgy get some more hot water up here for you. I know you probably haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Still no response.

“Can I do anything else for you? Do you want anything?”

He gazed up at her, although his stare was about ten thousand miles away. “Don’t know if get what I mean, but…I just…I want to go back,” he said. Like he had to pull the words out of himself from a deep well.

She nodded. Even though she hadn’t had the time to verify what he meant, she said, in all honesty, “I do.”

She went into the room, knelt down, and drew him close into a hug. After a moment, he brought one arm up to return it as best he could.

And Julia let herself draw strength from this moment. Hopefully, Quentin did too.

Because even though they weren’t themselves, they still had this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you had to wait so long for another chapter. My life's still pretty crazy at the moment, so there might be another stretch of time before I get another addition to the story out. Thank you for being so patient with me!


	12. Interlude III: The Double-Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude. In case anyone has any trouble, the plain text is Penny-40, Margo is in Italics, Penny-23 is Underlined, and Alice is Bold. And yes, I am enough of a nerd that I figured out the symbolic reasons for why each one has the text format they were given.

* * *

Audio Transcription of a Video Recording Filmed by William “Penny” Adyodi, Timeline 40

Department: STTG

Time: 11:57am Underworld Library Time

Date: XX/XX/XXXX

 

* * *

 

“Hey.

There’s a lot I have to say. A lot I have to…apologize for.

If I’m honest, I’m not sure of the best way to do this.

My guess is, since you’re head of the Library and all now, Alice, you might be the one who finds this first.

Or it’s you, Kady, ‘cause you heard about where to find me.

Alice, if you did find this first, ‘mind fast-forwarding a little? I’ll wave my hands, like this, when you can press play again.

Kady, if you’re there, I know I’m the worst…motherfucking dickwad asshole…ever, and you’re three seconds from pressing stop and closing this down anyway. ‘Cause you’d much rather I was there, standing right in front of you, instead of my face bein’ on some screen. And you wanna punch the one that’d actually get hurt. I know there’s nothing I can say right now that’ll keep that from happening. I won’t even try. I just…hope you keep watching. Or, I dunno, maybe you’ve come back to this after some time away.

Whether that’s the case or not, it all comes down to…

And I’m not…tryin’ to hurt you. I’ve only ever wanted….

It’s that…

My words, none of them, don’t have to mean shit to you. I know that. You don’t owe me that. I wouldn’t remotely even think of…us, like that.

But, in the end, beyond all our history, I’m sorry. I’m so. So. Sorry. And I know you heard that from Penny-23 already and this is the second time you’re not hearing it face-to-face. It’s total horseshit and you deserve more than that. This time, I’m saying it because I don’t want you to ever forgive me. Me telling Penny-23 some of that stuff…was wrong. It was…arrogant of me, to tell you how…you should move on, or that I was glad to see what you’re doing with your life. I have no right. My opinion, on the whole thing, ain’t worth shit after what I’ve done. Leaving you behind. Leaving everyone behind.

Maybe one day, a long long way down the road, I’ll see you again. And a million years after that, maybe you and I can talk about it. Whenever you want, we’ll talk.

Alright, you can press play now.

So, when I ran into Penny-23 a while ago, I said Timeline 40 wasn’t my story anymore.

I was wrong.

The thing about being down here, doing what I’ve been doing, is that….they try to get you to think like they do, behave like they do. Things have to go a certain way, in Secrets Taken to The Grave. All by the book. Every case has to have the same end result: the person gets the Metrocard and moves on. It’s the way the Underworld and the Library function together. Cogs in the machine.

Librarians think they’re so methodical. So all-knowing. So right. They spend endless amounts of time soaking in all these books about everything. And then books about the books. Because there’s not a lot else we think we can do.

And then it turns into there’s not much else we’re willing to do.

‘Cept for that dick Gavin. Dunno how long he was with the Library for, but the…the atmosphere got to him different or something.

Shit. Sorry. I am trying to stay on task here.

I chose to do this as a video for a reason. They get you so used to scribbling things down with a pen, or typing things up. And you start editing yourself as you go. I’m trying to break free of that. Be a little less filtered. Less head-up-my-own-ass. Less Librarian. ‘Cause otherwise, I’d be crossing things out, or pressin’ backspace over and over ‘til the right things came out the right way.

And sometimes that’s great an’ all. Easier to understand. Easier to communicate.

Easier to win the argument. Easier to think that one way is the right way.

But with this video, I’m at least just saying what’s true for me. With a backspace button, everything you first thought of is just gone, after a while. With video, you can see everything I started to say, thought better of, and finally decided to stick with.

God, sorry. I’m still going off the handle. Look at me, getting all philosophical 'bout this. I guess…I guess this’s what happens when you’re trying to…become yourself again.

Right, so back to it.

High school starts to teach you ‘bout a writer’s voice, right? Doesn’t matter whether it’s a textbook or Maya Angelou or Knausgaard or Amy Tan or friggin’ Sappho herself, there’s someone behind the words, right? And when it comes to helping people move on, leaving the Underworld to go to what comes after, there’s a “voice” behind it too. The Library gives you stuff to read an’ memorize, preparing you for the thing’s you’ll have to do. Whether it’s the book clubs or the training materials or the way you analyze something or have a discussion about it. The Library itself, I think, has a writer’s voice. In everything. A way of framing things, a perspective, a way of judging something even if the judging itself isn’t always the same.

And in Secrets Taken to The Grave, you _are_ supposed to help people move on. You talk with them, like you’re a cosmic therapist helpin’ them get everything off their chest, helpin’ them stop holding onto what’s keeping them in the Underworld in the first place.

But Secrets Taken to The Grave’s guiding these people to make judgement calls about the end results of their life.

Like you’re analyzing a character in a book. Like the universe’s nicest critic is sitting down for coffee with the author, so they can type up a review and send it off to their readers later.

In the end, that’s what the Library has you doing.

I read the books of people’s lives. One after the other. They had me…no, that’s not…lemme back up.

I started off just shelving books down here. But because of the way I was…willing to adopt their philosophies, eventually I got…an office. For the quality of my work. At first, it was like I got out of prison for “good behavior.” I got an office with a desk an’ a comfy chair. And authority over grunts like the kind I used to be. I even lectured a few of them, guided ‘em, on where to shelve people’s lives. Categorize them. Define them.

‘Maybe,’ I thought, ‘the system was made so other Librarians, an’ other people who used the Library, could learn from them. Get inspired from them.’

But that’s not exactly what Librarians do.  They don’t find the courage to change their own lives for the better. They don’t read about someone and then try to make the world a better place because of what they read. Only living people do that. Librarians, they absorb, they judge, they talk, they shelve, they move on to the next one.

I didn’t think of it like that at the time. See, certain lives would cross my desk. I got all o' you guys, after a while. Your books were these little peeks at my old life.  And I thought I had the _omniscient_ view now. I’d been trained to “see” how it was all going to turn out, the big Butterfly Effect of it all. Because I wasn’t in it anymore, I could see what it all “meant,” in the grand scheme. All the results of all the little actions of my old friends.

And I passed my supervisors’ tests because of how I judged all of it. I was speaking with the Library’s voice now, so off to Secrets Taken to The Grave I went. They wanted me to start immediately. Big sudden promotion.

And my first case was Quentin motherfuckin’ Coldwater.

Yeah.

I was his Secrets Taken to the Grave guy.

I mean I knew he was gonna die.

I didn’t know I was gonna help him move on.

Not only that, but I was supposed to help him move on _right after_ he died. No Underworld time, no Karmic Circle. Just straight up moving on.

I told him how his life, and his death, changed the lives of all you guys, going forward.

I helped him categorize himself.

And then he stepped through that doorway. Finished.

I went back to the Secrets room, and his hot chocolate was still sitting on the table. He didn’t touch it, much less finish it.

And my first thought was how poetic that was.

And then I felt like I was the most disgusting _thing_ in existence.

Never felt that disgusted at myself in my entire life.

And the icing on the cake was that I thought that it was a one-off. I thought I’d shake off this feeling. I’d see more people; help ‘em move on. I was just reacting to the death of a friend. I was finally processing it. I would stop feeling that way after a while, get back to serving the greater purpose. Get back to making sure the cog in the machine kept spinning.

Thank fuckin’ god that didn’t happen. ‘Cause I’m still feeling that way now.

And I’m seeing that people can’t just be shelved. They shouldn’t be bound up in some typed up lines on a few thousand pages, boxed up behind a pretty cover. I don’t know if the Library’s exploiting people for their life stories, but it certainly feels like it. I dunno what good Secrets Taken to The Grave’s doing now. Maybe it did start as a way to preserve the lives that’ve been lived. A record. Proof that a person was here, accomplished the impossible task of living a life.

But there I was, telling my friend what to think of his own life. Helping him figure out whether he died on his own terms or by just not running fast enough.

Like some _It’s a Wonderful Life_ bullshit.

Only, he doesn’t get to learn to love the life he has. Had.

He doesn’t get to go back, to keep trying.

To live.

So I thought back over everything I’d read about him. Well, everything I’d been told about him by The Library. I wanted to figure out what might’ve made him so ready to not even give himself some Underworld time. Whether the Library’s writer’s voice had anything to say about that.

It's funny, I remembered how all of our books have all these addendums in their margins. And footnotes comparing things to the previous timelines. But also there are notes about timelines that didn’t happen. Like the one you stopped, Alice. Like the one you lived, Eliot. I thought I’d go through everything. Every addendum, every footnote. Really pour over it.

Which is way ironic, ‘specially since I used t’ hate the guy.

The weird thing is, Alice, I read about how you stole the newly completed version of his book, fresh off the printers. And by doing that, you kept that version of his story from happening.

But I’ve met the…let’s call her the “ghost writer”…of everyone’s books.

And I can't help but ask if the spell the Library uses on her purposefully wrote the “wrong” version, just to make sure you stole it so that the “real” version actually happened. Because if the wrong version did happen, if the ghost writer hadn’t written what she’d written, then Quentin might not’ve been there in that park to know Eliot was still alive. And what would have happened then?

Alice technically changed all of your books that day, guys. Which makes me wonder if they were all wrong on purpose, or rather, if the right version went unwritten on purpose.

Which brings me back to Quentin. Was everything I read about his death written that way just to get me to guide him through Secrets Taken to The Grave the way I did? Was it the true version of his life after all, or is there some unwritten true version that I haven’t seen yet? Something outside of, and maybe even untouched by, the Library’s voice.

I went to go look for his book. The computers said Alice had it so, okay, fine, I just put a hold on it. I’d get it eventually. But then it was gone. Marked as out of circulation. When I tried to figure out who took it out, after a lot of backdoor searching and some actual bots, the computer spits out that it was me.

And I didn’t. I haven’t touched his book. Someone – ”

“ _Well, hey there. Long time, no live.”_

“Margo?”

“ _In the flesh. Oops. Sorry not sorry.”_

 _“_ How’re you…even down here?”

_“Nah uh. You wait your turn, Casper. My questions come first. And if you don’t feel like talking, well…how many song’s you feel like singing today, birdie? I mean, I’ve never tried ghost torture before, but I’m sure there’re a few books about it down here I could start skimming. What key d’you think you scream in?”_

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Fillory? Fighting the Dark King?”

“ _Says who? My book? No one writes my story but me. And I say it’s about time you answer for the shit you’ve been pulling.”_

“I…yeah. I agree.”

“ _Oh, no you don’t. You don’t_ get _to just agree with me. You haven’t earned the privilege. I’m going to take it out of your backstabbing ass first, piece by piece.”_

“Look, I’m saying I agree ‘cause I was ju – ”

“ _And I said you haven’t earned your change-of-heart arc yet, you shitstain. Because helping Julia bring Quentin back went apocalyptic, and there’s no way you couldn’t’ve known it would.”_

“WHAT?”

“ _DON’T. BOTHER. WITH. THE. BULLSHIT_. _She took things into her own hands and fell into that holding plane you stuck him in with no way out!”_

“But I didn’t help her. And I didn’t stick him anywhere. The last time I saw any of you was…a while ago. And the last time I full-on spoke with anyone was – “

“With me?”

“Oh. Hey.”

“Margo, were you gonna come get us at some point?”

“ _We’re on a time crunch, and I found him first.”_

“And you’re just gonna let Alice keep wandering around?”

“Who else did you guys – ”

“Dude, I think you’re the last person who gets to have their questions answered right now.”

“Fine. Then go find Alice. She can prove I haven’t sent anything topside. We do not do that, here.”

 _“Is that so? Then why do we have pages of notes from Julia talking about a ‘source’ that she found out works in Secrets Taken to The Grave? Why do we have Library records of you sending books up to help her?_ ”

“…”

“ _Oh my. Got nothing to say to that?”_

“Can I see the records?”

“Why?”

“ _No fuckin’ way. He’s gonna weasel his way out of anything we give him. He’s gone native. You can smell the Librarian on him.”_

“No, look…it’s like…you know how coincidences stack up around you guys sometimes?”

“ _Okay, Twenty-Three? If I walk out that door to go find the ghost torture section, you got him if he tries to escape?”_

“Jesus, there’s no need for that. I wanna help!”

“Help with what?”

“Getting Julia back.”

“But not Quentin?”

“I mean, he died. That hasn’t changed. I know you just said he was sent to some kind of ‘holding plane,’ but that doesn’t negate the fact tha– ttthhgggghh.”

“ _Huh.”_

“Guess you can smack people down here.”

_“Good to know.”_

“…Hitting me’s not gonna change anythi– nnggggguuh.”

_“This is very satisfying. You wanna try?”_

“Margo, the _facts_ aren’t gonna change no matter how many times– sssshhh.”

“ _Hey, Alice. Took you long enough._ ”

“ **You found him.** ”

“Keep hitting me and you’re not gonna get anywhere. I said it already: _I want to help_. I was actually in the middle of getting started on that when you all barged in.”

“ **Margo…he’s right. I’d get in line behind you, but…pain doesn’t mean anything to him. Not down here. And not for as long as he’s stuck down here. Hitting him is just a waste of time.** ”

“Thank you.”

“ **Shut up. Why did you let Julia go down there without warning her about the memory loss?”**

“I didn’t ‘let’ her do anything. I didn’t even know what she was doing ‘til you started accusing me.”

“ _Alright that’s it, ghost torture it is.”_

“I’m telling the truth, Margo.”

“ _’Cept you’re not. No matter what you say, we’ve got_ you _as our own personal lie detector._ ”

“Actually, I can’t tell. The Library’s had him for too long. We don’t have the same tells anymore.”

“ **So you’re saying that none of it was you? All those times you contacted Julia yourself, or sent up the case studies, or the books about the Mirror Realm.** ”

“Yes, I swear.”

“ **Not good enough.** ”

“I swear on…”

“ _Yeah. That’s the problem. You left the land of the living behind. Everything you could’ve sworn on,_ anyone _you could’ve sworn on, you gave it up.”_

“I swear on Quentin, then. I swear on his last moments.”

“ _How fucking DARE – ”_ “ **You son of a bitch.** ”

“Not what you saw, Alice. After that.”

“What do you mean ‘after?’”

“I’m in Secrets Taken to the Grave, aren’t I?”

“ **You fuck– y-y-you bastard. Stop. Just _stop_. We know what you’ve done. Julia’s notes say you told her about meeting Quentin at the elevator. You told her you gave him a Metrocard, led him to the doorway** –”

“How the hell…well, no, I didn’t. I mean, yes, I did guide him through it, but I didn’t tell her that. Did she say that we watched all of you? At the bonfire?”

“Ohhh fuck you, man.”

“Did she?”

“…No.”

“I’m…I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt anyone. It’s just…his last moments do matter to me. I showed him all of you singing, and we talked about stuff for a little while as we watched you. I tried to lead him away, but he asked for one last look. And later, right before he walked through the door he…he fuckin’ hugged me. His last moments…well, they _are_ something that I haven’t abandoned.”

“ _Don’t listen. He’s still just bullshitting us._ ”

“I know…it’s still raw. That none of you have moved on. And…I haven’t either. Before you got here, I was…actually just talking about it. I’ve been making a video about it, and about other stuff I’ve been thinking about. It’s still recording now. Maybe it’s a fuckin’ resignation letter at this point, but that doesn’t matter. You can watch it in a bit if you want; see me explain myself. What it boils down to is, I’m done with the Underworld Library. I’m done with the omniscient bullshit and sitting on the sidelines and cataloguing and defining and shelving and judging. That was never who I was – who I AM, but I let myself…convince myself that it was.”

“ **Sorry, Penny. I’m still not buying it. It’s true that** **Julia’s notes don’t explain everything. Maybe she didn’t write down everything she was told. But there’re still too many things that all point to you. The books, the Underworld registry. A visit she had to ‘wake herself up from.’”**

“But no one in The Underworld can do that. We can’t talk with the living in their dreams. Even former Travelers. Think about how different things would be for the living if we could.”

“ _’Bout as normal as they already are. People dream about dead people telling them things all the time. And besides, we heard you in our heads with the Unity key.”_

“Actually…I think he’s right.”

“ **How?** ”

“The Unity key replaced him with me after he gave himself over. That was the only thing powerful enough to bring his voice into your heads. But more to the point, if it was for _Kady_? He would’ve found a way to Incept living people. At least, before he gave in to the Library. And maybe even after that too. If he had a moment of weakness, a wave of missin’ her he couldn’t shake? He’d’ve tried…He wouldn’t have given up unless there was absolutely no way. And it looks like he did. ‘Cause the only thing he managed to be able to do was talk with me in some in-between place. And that was under some very specific circumstances. Impossible to replicate. So, fact is, he really can’t talk with anyone topside. An’ if we rule that part out – and I really fuckin’ hate to say this – but who’s to say the other things aren’t exactly what you said they are: too many. They’re too much of a reason to make us go after him.”

“Someone’s pointing fingers at me for a reason?”

“If we feel like exploring that option, yeah. Feel free to prove me wrong, though.”

“Okay, so then Julia’s been dealing with someone who looks like me, has the same resources as me, but has more power than me. More scope. Someone who knew what she would need, and had the power to give it to her. And then, let it go wrong for their own reasons. Someone who can leave a false trail, while still hiding in plain sight. Someone who can even take Quentin’s book out of circulation.”

“ _What?_ _!”_

“His book. It’s gone. There’re no admin notes about what happened to it or where it went. It’s just gone. The Library’s system _says_ I did it, but I don’t have that kind of access.”

“Julia wrote that you thought she took it.”

“ **I…I did. Because I may be head of the Neitherlands Branch, but I can’t override the Underworld Branch taking something out of circulation. When it vanished from my desk, I was…I was angry. I thought she was behind it, somehow. But I was wrong.”**

“ _Question. If Q’s book was taken by whoever’s been pulling all these strings…is there a chance it’s because this’s all gonna work? That there’s more life he gets to live?”_

“ **...** ”

“…”

“I have no idea. He’s still dead. That isn’t going to change. Unless Julia was given something to bring him back.

“Whoever’s pretending to be you gave her books on that, yeah. But she said she was gonna leave that choice up to him.”

“Okay. Guess that doesn’t quite answer the question, Margo, but it doesn’t rule it out either. ‘Cause I _don’t_ know what happened to Q after I left him at the doorway. I wasn’t given any material – about his existence after that, at least – about him after his death. No one in the department gets stuff about people after they die. But, based on you guys actually being here, and all the other shit going on, technically all o’ you are off script at this point, so…”

“If you’re not the Library’s bitch anymore, you gonna tell us who writes the script?”

“Her name’s Cassandra.”

“ _What makes her so special?”_

“She’s _the_ Cassandra.”

“ _Like – ”_

“Yeah. The one who told Troy not to bring that horse inside, and no one believed her. She writes everyone’s books thanks to some Library spell. I met her when I was getting the Abyss key from Benedict.”

“Can we ask her who’s behind all this?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I met her when magic was gone. It was rough on her. She was writing everything by hand, one page at a time. She explained some things to me by having me read what you guys were goin’ through. But she’s…better at writing than talking, let’s just say that.”

“Okay. Sounds like that’s our next stop. We’ve still got some time before we gotta get back.”

“ **No. How do we know it’s not all just an act? Penny, every single thing you’ve said could’ve been memorized long ago. If you’ve read all our books, then you know what’s going to happen. You know everything you’re supposed to say to get us to believe you.** ”

“Alice…I…I don’t – I _can’t_ offer to show you your books to prove myself. It’s not that I physically can’t, but it wouldn’t be fair of me to make that offer. Not only are they _your_ books, but they are…written a certain way. Let’s just say their narrator’s got it all wrong, literally and…stylistically. Margo and Eliot are supposed to be in Fillory. You’re supposed to be negotiating opening up the Library doors to the Hedges. All o’ you guys seem to be making your own story now. And I have a theory about why. This is something that I haven’t been able to prove yet, but remember how you stealing Quentin’s book made sure he didn’t die in the park? It was just a small change, but you kept him alive. You found – ”

“ **I’m not listening to you! Reasoning with me isn’t going to work. Piquing my curiosity isn’t going to work. I’ve been someone incessantly hunting for answers for too long now. I’ve crushed that part out of me. Unless you have something meaningful to say, something that goes beyond telling me things that I don’t care about, I am walking out that door.** ”

“…”

“Wait. I let him walk through that doorway. I _led_ him to walk through it. Because I thought it was all for something bigger. But how can there be _anything_ bigger…than what he did for all of us? And if he’s been sent somewhere he wasn’t supposed – that he didn’t _deserve_ to go to – then I’m gonna do everything to get him back.”

“ **Fine.** ”

“ _Alice, you sure?_ ”

“ **No. But we can use him, if nothing else. I have to go back and check on Quentin. Eliot probably went down there without me, which means we have to wait for Kady to come back before we can go back.** ”

“Time passes different down here. She might be on her way back too.”

“ _Alright then. Cassandra’s mine. Is she gonna freak out when she sees two of you?_ ”

“She freaks out about pretty much everything. ‘Specially the people she’s writing about.”

“Greeeat. Alright, lead the way then.”

“Alice?”

“ **What?** ”

“Before you go, take this. If I’m – I’m not a part of the team again, I know that. But if I’m…a consultant, if nothing else, can you show this to Kady? And Eliot probably? They’ll have questions and just watching this’s gonna maybe…start clearing things up a little.”

“ **I’ll need a flashdrive or something. We’ll keep it off the Library servers.** ”

“Thank you. It’s unedited, so you just need – ”

 

End Audio Transcription.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this isn't me promising anything, but I should be able to resume a "regular" weekly uploading schedule now. Thank you so much for your patience and your comments. They mean SO much to me, more than I can use words to say. I hope to get the chance to respond to them soon.


	13. The Failed Attempts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a small sexually explicit scene in this chapter. I've marked it with a ++, and it ends with a second ++ if you want to skip past it.

There was a…disorienting…shock running through him. Water sloshed into Quentin’s mouth and he scrambled to sit back up. He’d drifted off in the tub.

He settled against the left side again, and draped his arm over as an anchor. The bath was made of copper and free-standing, radiating heat and long enough for him to stretch out completely if he wanted. Every time he shifted, water churned just under the rim and made a disquieting _slosh_ _-glub_ sound _._

This was technically his second bath. The first had just been Quentin doing his best to scrape all the dirt, muck, and wine sludge off of himself.  He’d popped the plug, wrapped himself up in a towel, opened the bathroom doors, and then guilt promptly shot through his gut when he saw Silver and Gummidgy outside with four new steaming buckets. No matter what he'd said in protest, they refused to listen, and just kept bringing more up until the tub was full again. Gummidgy promised the second soak was the most important, and good for restoring inner balance, and his aura wasn’t going to get better until he did, and so many other reasons that finally Quentin just gave in.

Maybe he’d given in too much. Considering.

He knew everyone was downstairs. The rich guests were patting themselves on the back with every glass of wine, and the poor servants were at their elbows to keep the wine flowing. His little jaunt under the earth ( _to kill a god, for the second time, like, what the hell?_ ) had guaranteed he was going to spend the rest of the night up here. Sequestered from sight, but inspiring rumors all the same.

Well, at least being all alone was familiar territory.

Quentin leaned back and closed his eyes. He expected his brain to have Ember’s death on loop behind his eyelids, but every time he thought of it, the details were just…hazy facts. He really was too exhausted to care.

Gummidgy had poured a little lavender and rosemary infusion into the water with the last bucket, and Quentin reminded himself to thank the man the next time he saw him. The aroma was bleeding the stress out of his body.

Without opening his eyes, he felt along the floor of the tub until he found the soap. He ran his palms over it, and worked up a lather. The washcloth had drifted along the water’s surface next to his knee, so he plucked it between his fingers and pressed the lather in. He ran the cloth over his face, into his scalp, along the back of his neck, and massaged the last suds into the base of his skull. He washed his hair as slowly as possible, dragging the strands back and forth. Ducking his head below the surface briefly, he let the water stream down his brow, along his eyelids, and over his cheekbones as he raised his neck and…that feeling…it was like Eliot’s hand cupping his cheek all over again.

The intensity of his eyes, staring at him like he was the only thing worth looking at.

Heat was curling low in his belly. A flush came to his cheeks as he realized…he hadn’t felt like this in months. He hadn’t _wanted_ to, wanted  _anyone,_ for so long.

_Eliot. Pressing Quentin’s head to his chest. Running his calloused, warm hand down Quentin’s shoulder and along his arm. Feeling the solid press of his body holding him close. Hearing Eliot’s heart thumping just a little too fast._

++

His cock stirred. Maybe this was just some base, instinctual, animalistic reaction to facing so much danger today. Quentin took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Eliot wanted him, didn’t he? Or, did he want the person Quentin didn’t remember being?

Eliot wasn’t a fantasy. He wasn’t fictional. He was a real person, who may not want Quentin thinking –

Oh who the fuck was he kidding. Eliot had gotten down on his knees and –

Quentin reached down and ghosted his fingers along his length. His breath stuttered.

 _Eliot_.

_His tongue licking his pink lips._

Quentin wrapped his hand around the base, his small finger brushing his balls.

_Eliot._

_His hands taking Quentin’s hips, guiding him, naked, down onto a bed, and sinking that gorgeous mouth with his soft perfect lips right onto the head of his cock and swirling his tongue._

The water undulated as Quentin started to stroke himself, taking his time, dragging his grip up, and then sliding down a little faster. He was getting hot.

_Eliot._

_Sucking, hollowing his cheeks. Moving Quentin’s hands to the sides of his head to grip his hair, letting him push himself deeper into Eliot’s hot wet wanting mouth._

Quentin needed to do something with his left hand. It was just resting there. He drifted it down to run the pads of his fingers along his thigh, along the stretch of skin near where his right hand was starting to pump himself faster.

No. He needed his left to hold on to something. He latched onto the side of the tub.

_Eliot._

_Trailing his hands around his hips, his mouth sinking halfway down Quentin’s cock, pressing his fingers into the skin of Quentin’s ass and gripping him tight. Teasing the very idea of sinking down onto Quentin all the way as he brought him closer, making him arch just a bit off of the bed, swallowing so Quentin could feel what was coming. Pulling back so he could feel the amazing slide of those lips around every inch, the slight cool sensation of air on his spit-slicked length as he almost released Quentin entirely, lapping his tongue at the head again as Quentin gathered his hair between his hands and tugged, wanting to fuck his mouth and his hips jerking up in spite of his best efforts to keep himself under control._

The water was moving around him in waves, lapping around his shoulders. He added a twist to the tug of his wrist as he stroked upward, used a finger to slide around the head. The tub creaked as his left hand held on tighter. His heart was pounding, drowning out all of the sounds around him. He bit his lip. He couldn’t make a single moan, not a sound.

_Eliot._

_Sinking down again, like he’d taken the hint, an impossibly slow slick glide, until his nose was pressing into Quentin’s belly and Quentin’s cock hit the back of his throat for one beautiful moment before he pulled back, almost too soon for Quentin to feel that pure spiking lust up his spine, but making sure Quentin did feel it, enough to grip his hair harder in anticipation. Then yanking back, almost breaking Quentin’s hold, beginning to bob up and down faster than before, too fast, relentless, his hands releasing his ass, one to grip Quentin’s cock at the root while the other edged back around and pressed Quentin down into the mattress, a firm reminder to keep his rebellious hips at bay._

But Quentin couldn’t stop himself. His hips were fucking his hand, pre-cum easing the way as he spread it along himself in spite of the water. His whole body was blazing, wired. Oh, he wanted to cry out so badly. His balls were getting tighter, heavier, he needed more pressure. He squeezed his eyes, enhanced the darkness, clenched his cock as he sped up his movements to match his racing heart.

_Eliot._

_Knowing Quentin was close, not willing to let him off that easily, allowing Quentin to fall out of his mouth entirely to lick and mouth down along the side and following one of the veins, almost dribbling spit. Trailing the hand on his hips to brush a thumb over the rise of his stomach, to graze his fingers up to circle his nipple, to put his hand so gently over his heart. Like that was the pause before the crescendo. Then letting Quentin disrupt his plans to pull him up and lock their mouths together in a brutal, sloppy kiss. Suddenly shocking Quentin as he tilts his own hips and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks, making Quentin pull back to gasp for air as he feels every staggering inch of him. Overtaking every thought in Quentin’s head, smiling as he feels Quentin crying out his name against his mouth. Rolling their hips as one, moving together, his hand trapped between them holding both of them in his grip, Quentin dropping his hands from his head, feeling his hair brush his cheek, to grip his ass, pressing them even closer together, feeling their hip bones tilt in tandem, back and forth, back and forth, the agonizing incredible never-ending slide, the heat of their bodies, they’re riding each other, moaning and crying out together, the pressure too good too much too hot too fucking –_

He came hard, pushing into his own hand so much that his wrist hurts. A small moan escaped his mouth, and water pushed over the side of the tub. Little streams of his come danced in the shifting water around his arm.

++

It really had been a while, hadn’t it? That almost-forgotten heady bliss was settling into his limbs. As he let himself go, everything started to drift. He barely managed to remember that he’d just fell asleep not too long ago in the tub. And that shouldn't happen again. He should…

Get out…

Head to bed…

His body was so heavy.

But there was no rush. The plug was right there. A few loosened muscles in his hand, a few pushes from his arms and legs, and he was out of the tub, the water curling in spirals down the drain.

He was so tired.

Eliot wanted him to sleep. So he would.

Back in the bedroom, the only light was one of the lamps left burning on his mother’s bedside table. Julia had left two slices of wheat bread and some cold ham on a plate. Quentin wolfed it down and hid the plate under his mattress.

Because God help him if his mother saw any more evidence that she hadn’t been obeyed this evening.

There was no getting around the fact that she would be back, and probably in no more than a few hours. They had more to talk about, he knew, and she wouldn’t rest until she got an answer that’d satisfy her feelings.

But if he fell asleep before they had that talk…oh well…

He could at least do one thing for her. She could take it as an apology, a gesture of good will, or whatever she wanted. At least it was something. Doctor Fogg’s medicine lay in one of the drawers of their bureau, he remembered, and they still had water in the pitcher from earlier. He dredged some determination and good will from the well of his mind, poured a glass for her, and followed Doctor Fogg’s instructions, leaving the tonic beside the lamp for her to see when she came in.

With that, he changed into his sleep clothes and crawled into bed. Faint hope stirred in his chest at the thought that he might avoid talking with his mother altogether, if Alice would just appear in the blink of an eye to take him back to the labyrinth again.

He let himself float into a haze as he turned on his side to face the wall. Warmth settled back over him after he tugged the blanket and sheets up and his heart began to settle. Praying that he was tired enough to pull this off, he took one pillow and lay it over his head, blocking out as much of the light as he could. If Jane came into the room, he might not stir if he was deep enough asleep. The other pillow he turned longways, resting his head near the top and curling his arm along most of its surface. If he really didn’t think about it too much, the pillow under him felt like the sturdy shape of Eliot’s chest, as if he were in the bed beside him, and the one over his head had enough weight to be Eliot’s arm, snuggling up and pulling him close, as Quentin fell into his first true sleep in days.

And then he woke up. It felt as though he’d only shut his eyes for a moment, but time had definitely passed. The room was in complete darkness, except for the moonlight glancing off the wall.

There was a crick in his neck, and as he rolled it a bit and felt another twinge, the pillow shifted and fell off his head. Something fluttered, and…he knew that clicking sound! He turned, and Alice, in her insect disguise, was scuttling out of the way as the pillow toppled to the floor. She was back!

Alice swiveled her head to deliver a sharp look in his direction. He winced. Somehow, her annoyance came through just fine in spite the lack of human characteristics.

Quentin snuck a quick look over to the other bed. His mother sniffed and turned her head, but didn’t wake. He’d slept through her coming back after all. She hadn’t even tried to wake him.

Remembering himself, he pushed his hands together toward Alice, and grimaced in apology. That seemed to do the trick. The tension eased out of Alice’s limbs, and she crawled closer.

He shifted in the bed, barely able to contain his smile and the pride in his voice. “I did it. I got the keys.”

Alice nodded. She even placed a hand on his arm and clenched the fabric. Maybe it was the most congratulations she could offer.

“Are we going back to the labyrinth?” he asked, leaning forward.

She nodded again, and moved to the foot of the bed to let him rise. He inched off of the mattress, put the pillow back on the bed, and headed for his shoes. The floorboards creaked as he stopped short, seeing the mud still caked on their vamps.

Jane’s words from earlier echoed in his ears. _Your father’s disappointed enough for both of us._

No! Not this time. He wasn’t going to be dragged down tonight. Hell, maybe this was the start of never being dragged down by stuff like that. His father was dead, but he wouldn't let anyone use his memory against him again.

Alice landed on his shoulder, tapping him on the cheek with her sharp fingers. He dragged himself out of his head and looked at her.

“Sorry, it’s stupid. I just…”

Perhaps he wasn’t ready to lay all that on Alice’s shoulders. Old habits, he knew, were hard to break. Even if he felt like he had enough resolve to break them.

“I just started wondering whether I should just go barefoot,” he whispered, adding a self-deprecating twist to it.

Alice flew over and landed on the flat plane of the bedroom door, making more clicking noises. Okay, well, he could take a hint. Leave things that don’t matter behind. Got it.

He started for the doorknob, and together they snuck out of the lodge just like they had the night before. All of the McAllister cars were long gone. Security seemed to be laxer than it had been during the day. A few extra men scouted the clearing, and there were a few shifting shapes shuffling past the trees on the edge of the woods. The shadows provided Quentin with enough cover, and Alice always gave him the right cues for when to move.

When they crossed beneath the labyrinth’s entrance, Quentin thought of asking her if he could try getting through on his own. It’d be good to see if he remembered all the twists and turns from their last trip, in case he ever needed to go through without her. He probably could do it.

He felt the words bubbling up, and he even started making the noises for the words. But then he thought about the chance she might just frown at him again. At least, if she resumed her real fairy shape to do it. So the aborted question came out like an awkward, grunted mess, and she turned to look at him for a moment curiously. He shook his head, embarrassed. After a beat, he tried to deflect her stare by asking something he only realized was ironic after the fact.

“So how did Eliot learn to understand you?”

Alice stopped short, hovering in the air. One of the limbs on her thorax moved to support her elbow as she put her spindly hand on her cheek.

“I, uh, I really need to stick with the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions until we see him, huh?”

The bug made a noise. It could have been a snort. Or maybe her best version of blowing a raspberry at him. He grinned sheepishly, and they made their way down through the corridors in silence after that. He didn’t feel like she was too bothered by him, though. There was something very fond about how she stuck so closely by him, never out of sight, checking to make sure he was following with every twist and turn. Whenever Quentin got his memories back, he hoped they might become better friends, if they weren’t already.

As they descended the hole in the center, in the blink of an eye Alice was back to looking like herself again, and there was a small smile on her face. She’d changed into another dress, still black and white, but with a pattern along the skirt like parallel staircases. She started casting the same spells as before, brightening the cavern slowly to give their eyes time to adjust.

Quentin saw a pair of long legs, capped with expensive leather shoes, sticking out from the inside edge of the dry fountain. His heart started to ramp up in his chest. His cheeks warmed at the memory of what he’d done earlier, and he tried to keep that still-burning hunger and hope out of his eyes.

He got closer, putting his hands on the fountain’s walls and leaning over the edge. What he saw was enough to start an explosion of emotion cascading all over his nerves. The feeling expanded into every corner and cavity of his chest, like he was a hot air balloon and the only thing tethering him to the ground was the sight before him. 

Eliot had fallen asleep waiting for them. He sat upright, his head lolling onto his shoulder at an odd angle. His long fringe was tucked back behind both ears. Of course, he’d changed his clothes during the time they’d spent apart too. Now he was wearing a three-quarter sleeve thermal shirt, whose buttons trailed only a third of the way down, all purposefully undone, showing off the top of his chest again. His black skinny jeans were covered in chalk dust, perhaps from him scooting over to the edge of the fountain to rest. The only things that he hadn't changed were his rings, and the little silver chain trailing from a belt loop into his pocket.

And his face. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, it was so unguarded. There was none of that piercing, wry, dazzling air he had about him so often, determined to impress. Just a soft contentment, an ease that radiated off of him. Vulnerability at its heart. He was miles away from that fantastical figure he cut the first time, with those horns and that billowing coat. Neither look was bad on him, obviously, but this one? Its candor melted Quentin down to his core.

A red tile was loosely gripped in one of Eliot’s hands, although any second it seemed ready topple out and wake him. Quentin wondered whether he even _should_ wake him. Why not just leave him like that, for as long as he could? For as long as Eliot wanted. As long as he needed.  Quentin pictured sidling up to him, gently moving him to lay his head on Quentin’s lap. Running his fingers lightly, soothingly, through Eliot’s hair, down his cheek, across his forehead, as he drifted off to sleep himself.

Shit, he was falling  _fast._

Alice landed on the edge of the fountain, disrupting his thoughts. She turned to share a look with him, smiling a little too. Quentin held up a hand, indicating he’d be the one to wake him. He pushed himself up and over the wall. Crouching down, he lifted the red tile out of Eliot’s hand and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Eliot didn’t stir.

“Eliot.”

Still nothing. Quentin tried _very_ hard to keep the image of a prince kissing Sleeping Beauty awake out of his head. He shook him a little harder.

“Eliot, we’re back.”

The man sniffed and nudged the side of his skull into the stone wall, like he was nestling into a pair of pillows that definitely weren’t there. Quentin grinned, sliding his hand along Eliot’s arm in a way that was sure to be ticklish.

“Elllllioooot,” he sang quietly, and dared to fit his hand between his fingers, where the tile had once been.

Finally, Eliot opened his eyes. Quentin was met with the softest smile he’d ever seen, and his heart literally skipped a beat.

“Mmm, hey Q,” Eliot said. He sounded so sleepy, Quentin could barely stand it. He pushed off of the wall and groaned in pain, closing his hand around Quentin’s without realizing it. “What time is it?”

“I have no idea,” Quentin said, caught up in the heat of Eliot’s palm.

Eliot blinked his eyes at the light cast by Alice’s magic, squinting a little. “Didn’t mean to drift off, I promise,” he said, first to Quentin, and then he tilted his head at Alice too.

She made a small wave of her hand, brushing him off, and she flew over to a part of the wall closer to them. She started chittering at Eliot, all business. He nodded along, moving his free hand to rub at the base of his neck.

“Good,” he responded, when she’d finished, but a yawn overtook him before he could get more words out. Quentin yawned too, out of reflex. It seemed to hit Eliot, then, that there was something in his hand that hadn’t been there before. He met Quentin’s eyes, and Quentin drew in a breath, withdrawing his hand in case it wasn’t welcome.

He didn’t miss the little flex of Eliot’s fingers after he’d taken his hand back. Quentin examined the red tile to busy himself.

Alice made some more noises.

“No, I…I didn’t really figure much else out,” Eliot admitted, also looking away. “If she left any clues, I haven’t found them here. I searched every nook and cranny. The Binder hasn’t been in the mood to explain everything either.”

“Did you need him back?” Quentin asked, looking up.

Alice trilled at him. He frowned, and looked at Eliot for help. Eliot gave a rueful half-smile and translated, “No, he insisted he be left with you when we first got here. It’s all a part of Julia’s original design.” He paused, overcome with another yawn, blinking a few times to clear the fog from his head. In his own words, he went on.

“Some parts we’re working on with just our own guesses. Others are all Julia. It’s been kinda hard to know when we have to step in, and when to let her stuff take over. The page of...himself the Binder left us with gives us what we need when we need it, but not much more than that.”

Eliot was being surprisingly forthcoming, no caprice in sight. Quentin wondered if he was always like this when he first woke, before the mask settled back in place.

Funny: he didn’t know _how_ he knew Eliot usually had a mask on. He’d only seen him twice before. But the knowledge was there all the same.

“How long have you guys been here for?” he asked. Alice and Eliot looked confused, so he quickly continued, “Like, on your own? Working on all this?”

Eliot glanced at Alice, and through Eliot she said, “Julia went missing back in February. We didn’t notice at first because…things work a little differently, in the different places we work and live in. We were all separated dealing with…different things, too. But once we realized she was gone, and we got everyone back together, it took us a week to break down the wards she cast around the rooms she was using for her work. She’s always been good at remaking magic like that. From there, we saw what she was working on, and we had to figure out how she was bringing you back, and what was keeping her from coming back with you, and how we could help.”

“So,” Eliot finished, rubbing grit out of his eyes, “it hasn’t been just us. Margo and Penny and Kady’ve been chipping away at stuff too. But it feels like it’s been a fuckin’ while. How long has it actually been? Who the fuck knows.”

“It’s been really hard on you guys, huh,” Quentin said.

Eliot scowled, and dismissed him with a shake his head. But he was prevented from saying anything else because he had to fight back another yawn.

Quentin gripped the tile in his hands. Something'd been bugging him ever since his first bath. It was getting harder and harder to ignore. But he wasn’t remotely gonna consider talking to them about it. Because it was just his brain being dramatic. He just needed to focus on getting through the tasks. For them. So they didn’t have to feel like this anymore.

So his mind should just shut up about it for now.

He gazed up at the hole in the ceiling at the half moon, and said instead, “I’m sorry. For everything all this’s put you guys through.”

They both flinched, reaching for him. Alice got there first, landing on his shoulder and gripping his shirt in her hands. Eliot bit his lip when he saw this, and let his hand fall.

“Alice says that this is nothing,” Eliot intoned as she chirped at him quietly. “Compared to what we’ve been through before.”

They both looked at him with such sadness, in that moment, that Quentin’s breath caught in his throat. It was another tiny glimpse of their collective past, written all over their faces. The story of their lives, the tale that Quentin didn’t remember, was like this canyon constantly in his peripheral. Every time he thought he might get a better look at it, some kind of hint to deepen his understanding, to know more of what waited for him after his tasks were done, the chasm only got wider, deeper.

Alice swallowed, and then she launched herself into the air. She said a few more things to Eliot, who responded with a quiet, “Yeah, we’ll be fine,” and then she sped off through the hole and into the night. She didn’t look back.

Quentin blanched. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset her.”

Eliot shook his head again, hiding the sadness in his eyes with a plastered smile. “She just…has to get the next part started. Moon’s not getting any smaller, you know. She's the only one with the magic to activate it.”

“Maybe you can teach me how to speak some ‘fairy?’” Quentin offered. He knew he probably wouldn’t pick up enough to make a huge difference, but he was a little desperate to do something for her. “So she doesn’t feel like she can’t talk to me about some things?

Eliot raised both his eyebrows. “I don’t speak a lick of fairy.”

“Then how…?”

Eliot was apparently still a little slow on the uptake. Finally, realization dawned on his face, and he tapped himself on the temple. “Alice casts a spell on me so I can understand her.”

Quentin’s eyebrows drew together. “Wouldn’t it be easier for her to – ”

“Cast it on you, too?” Eliot stood up, dusting himself off and stretching. Quentin caught a peek at the expanse of Eliot’s stomach, and jerked his eyes back down to the ground. “I thought of that. But half the time she’s speaking about spoilers.”

“Spoilers again, huh?” Quentin said, not without a little bitterness.

“There’s a risk, if you know what’s coming, that it might ruin…the ending. Badly.”

“Well, I don’t think so.” Quentin tried not to sound too offended, but his voice broke a little. “Maybe I’ll be able to appreciate the ending more when I get there. ‘S not like I haven’t peeked at some endings before.”

A pleased, wicked smile snuck onto Eliot’s expression - making Quentin’s heart do an honest-to-god somersault despite his mood - and he leaned back onto the wall around the fountain, folding his arms. “Skipped to the end of the FIllory books, did you?”

“No!” Quentin said, horrified.

“Oh, sure,” Eliot said with pursed lips, nodding his head.

“I didn’t!”

“Whaaatever you say.”

Quentin stood up too, folding his arms too. “Those were important.”

“So are you.”

Quentin froze. Eliot seemed about as surprised at hearing the words as he did. For a second, Eliot looked almost afraid. Like he’d exposed a part of himself he shared with no one, and he didn’t know what Quentin was going to do about it. He cleared his throat and looked away.

Who _was_ he to Eliot? _Why_ did Eliot care so much? The words “Quentin” and “important” never belonged in the same sentence. That’s just how Quentin’s world worked. The whole point of this quest was that he was trying to _become_ important again. Trying to get through these tasks so he could be what his friends needed him to be. But sometimes Eliot looked at him and held him in his arms and it was like he was _already_ enough.

Before Quentin could insist that he really wasn’t, but thank you anyway, Eliot had already started talking again. “SO! Uuuhm. What’d you get up to while we were away?”

“I, uh, took care of myself,” Quentin said. Then he remembered what he’d actually done, panicked that he wouldn’t be able keep his thoughts off of his face, and cleared his own throat too. “Slept, an’ ate. And stuff. Like you wanted.”

“Yep. Me too.”

Both of them fidgeted, Quentin with the tile, and Eliot with the little chain on his belt loop. The silence stretched on for an agonizing moment.

“Fine,” Quentin said impatiently, pretending to sulk. “Don’t tell me any spoilers. Just tell me something that I wouldn’t know, even if I did remember.”

“Wearing a tie doesn’t automatically make a meal fancier,” Eliot said without missing a beat.

Quentin narrowed his eyes. Eliot blinked, meeting his stare head on.

“Okaaaay. How about something important?”

“Rosé isn’t just a compromise between white and red.”

Quentin grumbled and plopped back down to the ground, bringing a pile of tiles closer. “No, something really important. Like, what’s been going on since I’ve been here? The rest of the world goes on without me, right? What were you doing before you guys realized I got stuck here?”

Quentin divvied up the pile as he waited for Eliot to sort out a safe answer. The stacks weren’t organized like they’d been last night. Greens, tans, a few blues. And a few more piles close by had shifted, leaning on each other like dominoes. Maybe Eliot’d been fiddling around with them before he fell asleep.

Even though Quentin knew he wasn’t in Fillory, thanks to that nightmare of a meeting with Ember, he couldn’t help but wonder what he was getting his hands on. He was sitting on what, for all intents and purposes, looked like _the_ Mosaic. He'd dismissed it before. The puzzle before him probably wasn’t the real thing, he knew. And the books said it was already solved.

In that case, there wasn’t any harm in messing with the pieces just a little, he thought, not without a tiny speck of excitement.

Quentin kept waiting, sorting out the colors into separate piles again.

And kept waiting.

He looked up when Eliot still didn’t answer.

He was staring at Quentin like he was…

Lost.

“Eliot…”

He still didn’t respond.

Quentin scrambled to get to his feet. “Or not! I don’t have to know anything. I…I can tell you stuff instead. Like about the kids I used to teach. Or, how I might have a sibling any day now and I’ve kinda been freaking out about it. Even though it’s…not real, I guess.”

Eliot slowly moved his arms, bracing himself on the low wall and clenching the edge with his fingers. “Q, it’s…it’s okay. I’m sorry. I just…need a minute.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Eliot avoided his gaze, his head turning one direction and then the other. He was skittish, like he wanted nothing more than to climb out of the fountain and get as far away as he could. Quentin could barely stand to stay where he was. He was desperate to gather Eliot into his arms, to hold him close just like Eliot had for him when he’d broken down.

But.

He’d been the one to do this to Eliot, hadn’t he? He’d pushed Eliot too much, maybe even reminded him of something painful. Eliot kept warning him, but Quentin just hadn’t stopped asking.

Then Eliot’s limbs went slack, and he forced his legs to take a step towards him. It took him a little while, but he settled himself along one of the corners of the empty square dais. He saw Quentin’s worried stare, and looked away with pursed lips. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”

A fierceness stirred in his gut. Quentin knelt beside him and said, “No. It’s not. You’ve been not telling me things for a reason, and I should just trust you.”

“It wasn’t that,” Eliot sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, and the locks fell from behind his ears to dangle in front of his face. “It was just a memory. And completely separate from that, there’re things that're getting more and more complicated back in…well, I’ll call it back ‘up top’ for now. To thoroughly beat around the bush about it, there’s just a lot going on in my head.”

“I…I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories for you. I’ll stop prying,” Quentin said. He ran his fingers through his own hair, and it fell into his eyes too. “And you’re exhausted. Hopping back and forth between here and ‘up top.’ I shouldn’t’ve told you to hurry back.”

“And I need to learn how to control myself better,” Eliot scoffed, although the harsh tone was directed entirely at himself. “We’re both experts at beating ourselves up, Q. Experts. They ought to give us plaques. ‘Specially when we’re swept up in wishing we could’ve done things differently.” Eliot reached for out for him, almost held himself back, and then finally put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to keep doing that. I can’t bear to see you do that to yourself. That’s why I keep coming back. That’s why I’ll run myself ragged. Because it’s you. Because you are good and selfless and brave and because no one was there for you before. But now we are and now we're saving _you._ Things just keep getting in the way.”

Quentin started to shake. All those times Quentin’d thought of hurting himself, of not being able to bear living in this world anymore, because of his careless, selfish, worthless actions. Never being the kind of son that made his parents proud. Never the courageous citizen to go off to fight for his country. Never the breadwinner, never the caregiver, never the _right_ man. And Eliot read him like a book. Like a book he had memorized front to back. He saw all the ways his brain was tearing at him, and met him in that darkness by showing him a peek of his own.

And now, despicably, now he wanted to know the truth more than ever. Every time Eliot called him ‘Q,’ the weight of this unknown past between them crashed onto Quentin’s shoulders. Sure, Eliot read him like a book, but...maybe he thought he was seeing the final edition, and the Quentin in front of him was really just the first rough draft.

Eliot was projecting this raw kindness, and it made a part of Quentin want to crawl into his lap, wrap his arms around him, put his head underneath his chin, and stay there.

But he shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Because that wasn’t him. He hadn’t earned that from Eliot. Quentin was an imposter. Incomplete.

But then another powerful desire surged through him, the desire to pull Eliot close and protect _him._ To keep _his_ mind from battering itself around his skull. To do _anything_ and _everything_ for him, no _matter_ the consequences, forever.

It was insane. Where had those feelings come from? They felt endless, almost a lifetime’s worth. And Quentin knew that he had never experienced something like this. He was too young to know it. Fuck, he’d jerked off to some two-dimensional _idea_ of Eliot just a few hours ago.

But he _knew_ it. Knew it like he knew how to breathe, how to smile, how to cry. Like that unexpected image of Eliot making love to him was a memory, not his imagination. A memory from when he was whole. From when he was Q.

He wanted to kiss him. Was desperate to. He wanted to show Eliot just how much his words meant. Wanted to give him _his_ Q, at least for a moment. Chills blanketed him from head to toe with the intensity of it.

Something flickered in Eliot’s eyes. Had he seen something in his face? And that twitch Quentin was feeling, from the fingers on his shoulder, the tension that danced along the arm holding Quentin in place, grounding him but also ready to draw him closer? He wasn’t imagining that.

Maybe he could do this. Maybe Eliot wanted him to take that step. To be brave. To be the Q from his memories. He put his hand on the fabric of Eliot’s shirt, right over his heart, and bunched it in his hands, pulling. His heart hammered against his ribs, scared, hopeful, ready to be who Eliot wanted. Who he needed.

They drew close together. Eliot’s breath on danced over his nose. His eyes looked frantic and Quentin refused look away, meeting him there, sharing the fear and anticipation. He felt Eliot place his other hand on his side and slide it around to his back. Quentin felt the hair on Eliot’s chest tickle his knuckles as he clenched his shirt and exposed more of him to the open air.

Eliot shut his eyes. He gripped Quentin’s ribs, and then tugged him into an embrace instead.

“I…I can’t,” Eliot choked out.

Oh god oh god oh god, what the fuck had he done? He froze, unable to do more than clutch at Eliot’s clothes. Which in itself was _wrong,_ because Eliot didn’t – he wasn’t –

He felt Eliot adjust his head, moving his chin out to rest atop Quentin’s shoulder. All he could hear was Eliot’s breathing in his ear, ragged and pained.

“Eliot, I – ”

“Please. If, if there’s one thing I _can’t_ do, now, now that I have you and you’re so close, is repeat my own fuckups. And that would be so _easy_ , Q. To just take this second chance right now, to take how open and selfless you are, all for myself.”

Quentin’s brain was in free-fall. He didn't know what he'd done wrong. He was cracking apart. He could only stare ahead at the walls of the cave, at the edge of the fountain, at the piles of tiles strewn all over the place. Eliot’s arms shackled him in place.

“But I can’t let myself do that because we _are knitting your soul back together_ ,” Eliot moaned, “and if I take things into my own hands and try to shape who you are, and do things that tell you who _I_ think you are, you’ll be ruined. Just like I ruined things with you before, after the Mosaic – ”

Eliot stopped himself with a gasp.

“I’m, I’ve been doing too much of that already. Goddamnit, I need to shut the fuck up.”

“El, please – ”

“I’m not who I used to be,” Eliot burst out, “But I’m not who you deserve, either. Not yet. I’m getting there. And in order to get there, I can’t forget that more people need you than just me. And I can’t get in the way of that. I won’t let myself.”

Quentin couldn’t take this. He was such a disappointment. Such a failure. A fraud. Thinking what he felt for Eliot was anything close to what he was _supposed_ to be feeling, or close to the depth of what Eliot felt for him. He wasn’t the person that Eliot needed. Could never measure up to that. He’d used a _glimpse_ of what Eliot couldn’t help but feel for the real Quentin to _jack off in the bathroom_.

He shoved Eliot away and stumbled to his feet. His bare toes skidded on the chalky floor of the fountain, and he backed away until he hit the fountain’s wall. Eliot cried out after him, but that just made Quentin run farther away. He scrambled over the side, nearly tripping as he landed on his own to feet and made for the stairs. He could hear Eliot trying to come after him, so he mustered every bit of strength he had and turned to say, “And I won’t let myself keep being _this_. This, this empty person who isn't who you want. I promise. I’ll go back to the Binder and blow through the last two parts, and I’ll be me again. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix me!”

He turned and raced up the stairs, battered by the echoes of Eliot calling out to him. But he didn’t stop, plunging back into the labyrinth. He met dead ends three different times, barely able to retrace his steps. After several frantic minutes, he found the right path in the sparse moonlight and ducked around the corner. He couldn’t tell if Eliot was following, but that just made him run faster.

Finally, he found the last corridor and sped out from under the archway. The memory of that ambush of soldiers he went through today swam up before him, along with his sickening wish that Eliot not wait too long to come back and get him. God, he'd been a selfish monster today. He slowed down, pressing his back to a tree and waiting to see if his luck had run out. But nothing happened.

It seemed, also, that Eliot wasn’t going to venture out of the labyrinth after him. His brain supplied another image, one of Eliot’s wrecked face as Quentin pushed him away, and Quentin had to bite his own hand to keep himself from crying.

The Binder. He held the image in his eye like it was the flame and he was the moth. After some frankly torturous moments, he snuck back into the lodge and bound up the large staircase by the light of the dying fire in the fireplace. Prying open the bedroom door, he forgot to close it softly behind him. It thudded against the wall as he grabbed the lantern and the matchbook, sped into the bathroom, and tugged the large heavy doors shut.

He heard the creak of his mother’s bed, and his heartrate skyrocketed.

Not now! Anytime but now!

It took him a few tries, but he struck a match and lit the lantern. He pulled The Binder out from behind the radiator and opened it up to a random page.

It stayed blank.

“Please,” he begged, “I’m ready. Show me.”

“Quentin?” Jane’s voice called softly.

“Please!” he asked the book again. “Tell me what’s next!”

Two red smears rose up from within the pages he had open.

“Quentin?” Jane called again, louder.

His eyes zeroed in on the blooms of red, waiting for more colors. But red was the only one. The two splotches widened, in sync, like the artist was leaving the brush there too long on both sides and the paint was soaking into the pages like a stain.

Several floorboards groaned outside the bathroom doors.

The red paint suddenly veered out and around from the splotches, tracing a little line almost all the way around. The two lines descended down into the crease between the pages, and the red began to seep over them again, still mirroring itself.

Quentin couldn’t believe it. It’d been a few years since he’d seen an image like this, after he’d checked out an anatomy book from the town library. He was looking at, roughly, the shape of a womb.

“Quentin!” Jane shouted.

There was too much red. It was thickening in the crease of the pages, spreading over the lines it had already traced, covering all of the unused white space and almost about to run over the edge.

It couldn’t mean –

He dropped the book and it clattered onto the bathroom tiles. Yanking the bathroom doors open, he saw the silhouette of his mother coming toward him. She leaned on the post at the foot of the bed for support. There was a dark shadow on the bottom half of her night gown, and an unmistakable dripping sound. No, not a shadow. A large, terrifying pool of blood drenched her front.

The baby!

He ran over to Jane as she started to collapse, and he screamed for help at the top of his lungs.


	14. The Feeling of Deja Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrrrgh that is the last time I even suggest I'm getting back to a regular uploading schedule. I'm so sorry, everyone. I got caught up in writing another thing (which is nothing like this, but I needed to write something literally fluffy, and you can go read it if you want, just go find it on my profile), and then my responsibilities in real life reared their ugly heads. And also mental health's been a thing. But more importantly, I spent a lot of time figuring out some big plot points for this, so the absence of regular chapters hasn't been in vain. Thank you so much for everyone who's stuck around to keep reading this. It's all for you.

Alice could hear yelling. And there were thundering footsteps. Thanks to her fae ears, it sounded like a herd of elephants had decided to construct a bowling alley, and then play a few inaugural games for the hell of it. The noise wasn’t close, though. Now wasn’t the time to go investigate. She redoubled her focus, and with a few pinching rotations on Popper 5, 6, and 19, she finished recharging the last part of Julia’s old magic.

Heaving out a sigh, she cracked her wrists, fingers, and even her elbows. Just because she was a different species, that didn’t mean her limbs didn’t lock up from the stress of intensive spellcasting. When she'd fled the labyrinth, unable to face Quentin’s self-contempt for more than a few moments, it’d been only the latest of many surprises when the traces of Julia’s work led back to the lodge and into its attic. But Julia’d obviously borrowed from _The World in the Walls_ when shaping this one, so it hadn’t thrown Alice off too much.

Alice took a deep breath in, held it for a few seconds, and let it out, feeling the last of the spellwork settle in place. A mirage, in this desert of a realm without magic. She’d never been one for poetry, but the description fit well. And since there was no one around to see, she decided it couldn’t hurt to allow herself a small, satisfied smile.

It’d taken some time to feel proud of her magic again. That fledgling feeling had gone catatonic after the Library took Sheila, and poisoned everything about her trip to Modesto. It was only after that shouting match with her Mirror’d self that, strangely, her confidence had come back.

The floorboards under her tiny feet shook a little. The shockwaves vibrated from her spine into her wings. People were still running back and forth on the below. The whole building might be awake at this point.

So long as no one came into the attic, though, all that chaos below didn’t matter. After the very first day she and Eliot had spent here, she’d nearly convinced herself it was pointless to care about anything besides Quentin and Julia. This “holding plane” couldn’t be trusted. Couldn’t be _believed._ No sign, no hint, no wisp of magic at all? Even though it was somehow giving cohesion Quentin’s Mirror-Realm-irradiated soul?

And the people of this plane followed some kind of twisted Order, which was just another version of the Library, and it was fighting a civil war with a guerilla group, _coincidentally_ called Hedges? Familiar faces, both living and dead, surrounding Quentin and Julia on all sides? None of it made sense. There was no reason to invest anything in it. Except seeing it as an obstacle to overcome, a problem to solve.

(If she’d had a Knowledge discipline, who knows how long she’d want to study this place. She’d never been more grateful that she was Physical. Because if she let herself fear or respect the forces that controlled this place – if she let any of it _matter_ –  then they weren’t going to get Quentin back.)

Because fuck the Order, in this world and in the living one. If the laws of the universe – if the essence of Magic itself – thought that she would be satisfied with running the Library...after it’d played such a role in ripping him apart in front of her eyes…

Well, if she knew it’d make a difference, she would burn both versions to the ground if that meant getting him out.

Seeing him here was…well, her brain cruelly supplied the comparison of dealing with a dementia patient.  He’d regressed to the person he must have been before Brakebills. Full of more self-doubt and self-loathing than she’d ever seen. Nothing they had said or done triggered his memory yet. But parts of him, the way he reacted, were so utterly _him,_ from the present, that it was like putting her heart through a meat grinder.

It was a good thing she couldn’t speak with him directly. She didn’t know the things she might say if he understood her. It was a miracle Eliot managed to keep it together for the both of them.

Because that _apology_? Saying sorry for the trouble he was causing? As if _any_ of this was his fault. Any of it…

She couldn’t face it for too long. She’d be useless if she did.

All the same, she knew she had to care about this plane a little. Quentin, like a rosebush desperate for homeostasis, had grown roots here. And though it was probably thanks to whatever had altered his memory, it didn’t change that outright uprooting him would cause him pain. Julia too. Both of them cared, as a matter of survival. As the basis for who they were. As the reason why Alice had fallen in love with Quentin all those years ago.

A transplant, a transition between her world and this one, was safer.

So, maybe, she should go investigate what all the noise was about. She’d been in the attic for less than an hour, and the thundering sounds had been going on for about half that time. The lodge wasn’t under attack; otherwise, she’d have heard the discharge of ammunition. And probably a lot more screaming. But something was upsetting enough to send several people running up and down the floors. If it might affect Quentin when he came back from the labyrinth, it was worth her time.

She turned away from Julia’s spell, and hopped down off of the dusty table she’d been standing on. Flying over to the attic door, which was cracked open to let in a little light, she changed back to the shape of the insect. It was easier and faster than bending light to make herself invisible. And the bugs spindly feet provided a convenient way to sneak around, letting her climb on walls and ceilings anytime she needed. She crawled up to the top of the threshold and slipped through the crack.

Down a flight of stairs and around a corner, she found the corridor crowded with people. The only one she recognized was Reynard. He was practically vibrating in place, his eyes staring unblinking at the one of the doors, his gloved hands clenched at his sides.

It was the door to Quentin’s bedroom. Alice slowed her progress, but deemed it safe enough to go forward a little further.

None of the servants nearby dared to make a noise. Some held lamps or candles, giving the corridor a little dim light. Not enough to expose Alice to their scrutiny, thankfully. She made sure to keep her tail steady, and made her way along the ceiling. As she neared the group, the door opened, and the doppelgänger of Dean Fogg started to step out into the hall. His hands, and the white sleeves of his shirt, were coated in dark stains.

As the door started to shut behind him, Alice caught a glimpse of Quentin leaning against the back wall inside.

What the _hell_ was he doing back so soon?! Granted, it’s not like he needed to stay in the labyrinth all night, but surely Eliot wouldn’t have just sent him back?!

The door closed before she could even think about sneaking in. She heard the servants asking about Mrs. Corrigan, and Fogg’s voice offering them vague reassurances.

When Reynard stepped forward, everyone else shrank back. Fogg went towards him, heading down the stairs with the captain following a step behind. The servants were left to stare down the banisters after them.

Alice scuttled along after the two men as fast as she could. Something had happened to Jane Chatwin – or, well, to this plane’s attempt at giving Quentin a mother. Enough to set the entire lodge on edge. Enough to cover Fogg’s clothes in more blood than what could be explained away by regular pregnancy issues.

Fogg traversed his way down to the lower kitchen. The captain ordered a small man near the fireplace to give them the room, and the servant scurried out of site.

Alice almost went in after them. But that would just be pushing her luck. Better to stay hidden. She crawled over and stationed herself on the lintel above the doorway out in the hall, close enough to hear but completely out of sight.

She could hear the scuffling of shoes, and the splashing of water. The dean’s voice carried far as he began to speak. The exhaustion in his voice was palpable.

“Your wife is very ill. She’s stable, for now, but she’ll have to be sedated. I can’t say for how long. Perhaps even the rest of the pregnancy.”

There was a long pause. Alice waited for some kind of response from the captain, but for whatever reason, he was silent. Eventually, Fogg resumed talking, reassuring Reynard that the baby wasn’t in any immediate danger now, and launching into a few anatomical explanations why. Alice suspected it was to fill the dead air in the room.

When Fogg grew quiet again, Reynard finally spoke. “Heal her, Doctor. No matter how much it costs, no matter what supplies you need. Make her well.”

For a moment, Alice couldn’t believe it.

She didn’t remember much about that time when, as a niffin, she’d watched the fox god tower over Quentin in that undercroft at Brakebills. But she did remember the _devastation_  that'd seeped into every cell of Julia’s body, in the aftermath of Ember removing that memory block.

To hear this disgusting _creature_ offer such devotion to anyone, even if she was his wife, sent Alice reeling.

Maybe it wasn’t devotion. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t see his face. She was hearing him from another room. Maybe he was ordering Fogg to cure her because he was upset that his wife had...somehow failed him? As if this illness, this whole unpredictable evening, were somehow the fault of her weakness? There was no way to tell, but that reason was at least a little more realistic.

Fogg cleared his throat. “Rest assured, I’m staying until the baby is delivered. I’ll be by her side every hour. I told Julia to move Quentin to the attic for now, so he can get some rest.”

Shit. Was Q on his way to the attic, like, _right_ now?!

She couldn’t stay here any longer. Leaping off the lintel, she barreled up the side stairs back into the hallway. The servants had cleared out by now, leaving most of the corridor in shadow again. One silver-haired woman stood vigil outside the door, a lantern gripped tight in her hands. Alice attached herself to the ceiling, racing along the plaster. If the servant saw her, Alice didn’t wait around to check. Back around the corner and up the stairs, her little bug heart hammered even harder in her thorax as she saw the attic door was open much wider than how she'd left it. And there were voices coming from inside.

She forced herself to slow down. Inch by inch, she crept along the outside of the door frame, then slipped around the side to crawl along the wall.

Julia and two others were pulling away a dusty sheet, revealing a spare bed in the wide room. It had something that, well, _resembled_ a mattress on it. The headboard had been chewed at by either insects or rats. They made up the bed in record time, and the two other servants dutifully left the room to go attend to other matters. Or, more likely, to return to their beds.

Good. No one had gotten close to Julia’s spells.

But did _Julia_ remember that the second task was up here? Alice’s pincers clacked in agitation. She couldn’t be thinking of sending him through _now?!_

After a few moments, Alice breathed a sigh if relief. It didn’t seem that way. Both of the humans in the room were too quiet. Julia fluffed the pillows, and folded up the dusty sheet to be washed in the morning. Quentin stood off to the side by the sloping right wall, his suitcase in hand. His Fillory books were under his arm, and his posture was as stiff and as still as a statue's.

Alice almost went to him then. But Julia didn’t know what she looked like. Considering Julia’s own memory issues, there was no way to tell how she’d react. And Alice wasn’t about to reveal herself with too many variables at play here.

She heard Julia call Quentin over to the bed, and he shuffled forward.

As he grew closer, the light from an oil lamp on a crate nearby sharpened the dark circles under his eyes. Now that he was moving, it seemed as though every little thing might make him jump. Or send him scurrying out of the room. He set his suitcase down, slid it under the bed, and sat on the edge of the mattress. His shoulders slumped, and he pushed his hair out of his face. A large groan from the house’s timbers echoed in the space of the attic, and Quentin flinched.

Julia placed a hand on his shoulder. “Try to get some sleep.”

Quentin’s hands clenched into fists, and he didn’t look up.

Julia glanced at the door, torn about something.

Apparently, it could wait. She allowed herself to take a seat beside him. Alice watched as she almost went to smooth his hair back from his neck, then withdrew her hand. She settled an arm along his shoulders instead.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

Quentin closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn’t want to say. Or couldn’t.

Julia pursed her lips. “Doctor Fogg wouldn't've left your mom’s side if he was still worried about her. She’s gonna be okay.”

The house creaked again as more people started to settle down downstairs. Tension bloomed along Quentin’s shoulders and down his arms. His neck dipped low, and his head erupted in shakes.

With all the tentativeness of a dew drop beading to fall off the edge of a leaf, Julia wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close to her chest. He didn’t put up any fight, but the shaking stopped.

“All this. It. It’s not. It’s not going to go on forever,” she told him. She smoothed a hand down his arm, brushing her thumb back and forth in a small gesture of comfort.

“Julia?”

“Yeah, Q?”

They both stilled at the nickname.

Alice tilted her head to the side, trying to see them better in the dim light. One leg at a time, she crossed the corner joining the two walls, getting as close to the bed as she dared.

“I. Um. Are. Why,” Quentin tried.

The words were there. Alice could practically hear the ricochet of sentences going on in his brain. The different ways he could oh-so-carefully try to gauge just how much Julia remembered. She wanted to know just as badly. It was crucial they figure it out. It determined whether this whole thing would work, or whether they needed to salvage what they could and cut their losses.

“Are you with…the people…out in the woods?” Quentin settled on.

That was just vague enough to be safe.

Maybe it was too safe – she’d seen Julia sneaking off into the woods before, and it certainly hadn’t been to meet up with them in the labyrinth.

Julia’s eyes darted back and forth between the ceiling and the top of Quentin’s head.

“Right. Because of that first night, with that package from Fogg.”

Quentin’s face crumpled, but Julia couldn’t see it. Before he could backpedal or try anything else, she was already barreling ahead.

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

He swallowed. “Who would I tell?”

“Your mom. The captain.”

“No. I…I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His voice was a little higher pitched than usual. Almost like he was on the verge of crying.

Alice wanted to hit the wall. The conversation was going in the polar opposite direction of where it needed to go, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her tail started to vibrated behind her. She froze, in case she’d been heard. Neither of the people on the bed noticed.

“Thank you,” Julia breathed. The sound of her voice suggested genuine relief, if Alice was feeling generous about it. Julia hugged Q closer in gratitude, like that was the end of it.

Alice would have ground her teeth together if she had any.

She knew she shouldn't judge. She wasn’t battling amnesia and working to usurp a tyrannical warmongering monster to keep Q safe. It was impossible to know if Julia _had_ seen the chance to answer Q’s real question - and decided against answering it - or whether the memories were already gone. And this at least confirmed that Julia had ties to the Hedges. Of course she’d joined them, with Q under the Order’s thumb.

But the fact that _she_ was thanking Q for not exposing her, after _he’d_ gone through some _harrowing_ shit today….

Alice felt herself wrestling with the same emotions she’d had before she and Julia got to know each other better. Julia was martyring herself. No matter whether it was willingly, or just out of sheer unconscious stubbornness.

Quentin bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t seem to have enough strength left to ask anything else. He pulled away from her embrace and said, “I should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Julia agreed, offering an understanding smile. She got up, said goodnight, and started for the door. Just before she left, she paused, turned back, and reiterated, “It’s not for forever, remember.”

Oh, Alice was _this_ close to flying over and buzzing right in her face.

Quentin made a sound like he agreed. He reached for his suitcase, like he meant to undress. There were some browning blood stains on his knees.

Julia looked as if she wanted to say more. But she closed the door behind her instead, leaving a heavy silence behind. The second the door shut, Alice sped over to land on Quentin’s pillow.

His eyes tracked her flight, and he straightened his spine. But other than that, he didn’t react to her being here at all.

Alice felt a prickling worry press into her chest. Without Eliot here, things were going to get difficult. Not just for talking. Half the time, she wound up relying on him for more than just translating. She didn’t know how he managed it, but he kept his head on his shoulders. No matter how much things hurt, he’d somehow found this determination to see things through, instead of running away like she did.

Which made Quentin’s presence back here in the lodge all the more suspect. Eliot wouldn’t have sent him back so quickly. He treasured each moment with Quentin as much as she did, even though they were on a deadline. Alice had even thought she’d meet the two of them back in the labyrinth after she was finished, and then she’d lead Q back here to start the task. But here he was, fresh out of Jane’s medical emergency, and he definitely wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.

She scuttled over, and touched one of her upper arms to one of the Fillory books he was still holding. She tapped it, hoping he’d get the hint. Like a puppet with its strings cut, Quentin let the muscles in his arm go slack, and the books tumbled into a pile on the blankets. Alice clacked her pincers at him, the closest she could come to frowning.

Quentin’s eyes fell to his lap, and they grew foggy and out of focus. She had to do something. He was going to retreat into himself at this rate. She transformed back into her fae shape, and used magic to prop up _The Secret Sea_ in front of his face.

“Tell me what happened,” she told him, using a little phosphoromancy to highlight the words on the page.

It got his attention for a moment. Quentin never could resist flashy magic. He raised his eyes to watch as she repeated herself.

But then he shook his head, and let it fall down again.

Alice swallowed. She flew in front of his face, laying a hand on the tip of his nose. She lit up the words once more. And then, for good measure, she highlighted, “Please I am,” and then she flipped through a few pages before she finally found “worried.”

A quaking breath tumbled out of Q’s mouth. He turned away from her, lying down and curling up in a fetal position at the head of the bed. He slid his fingers into the strands of his sweat-matted hair, and he tugged on them painfully.

“No, Q, come on!” she said aloud. All that came out was the usual chirping and clicking sounds.

He didn’t know their history, any of it. He didn’t understand that she would do anything for him right now, would carry (or even obliterate) any weight crushing his mind.

As much as his amnesia clawed at her, though, she knew it wasn’t important. She shoved the hurt aside. Maybe she could motivate him. She flew behind the book, pushing it around and downward like an astronaut in zero gravity, until it was in front of him again.

“Second. Task. Ready,” she painstakingly spelled out.

His lower lip trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut. In a wrecked, broken voice, he said, “I can’t, Alice.”

She hit the book several times, making the sound to get him to open his eyes again. When he did, she highlighted, “Yes you can.”

“No. I can’t. Please, stop."

“You have to get out of here.”

The memory of her trip to Secrets Taken to the Grave slammed into her head. The possibility of an imposter, running around with Penny’s face, who could appear in dreams, who maybe even took Quentin’s missing book, who was directly affecting everything going on here whether Alice liked it or not…

“Do I?” Quentin’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Yes!” she shouted. Her desperation was somewhat diminished by the squawk of a noise that came out of her mouth instead.

His brain really was showing him no mercy tonight. Or whatever the equivalent was, in the Underworld, since apparently depression still carved holes into a person even when they were dead. He closed his eyes again in defeat, shook his head, and turned away from her onto his other side.

She flew over to look at his face, hovering in the air by the edge of the bed. She was so frustrated, she had half a mind to use magic and drag him upright, forcing him toward the task herself. Guilt swam in her chest as soon as she finished the thought. One of the last times she’d used magic to choose what was best for him…was when she’d melted the seven keys he’d worked so hard for, in front of his very eyes.

He’d been in the room with Jane Chatwin tonight. Either he’d been there only for a moment, or he’d been there from the very beginning of whatever happened. Maybe he’d been terrified of losing her, or of losing the baby. Or, going back further, maybe something had happened after Alice left the labyrinth. Some internal ache that Eliot hadn’t been able to soothe.

Maybe, even though he didn’t know it, Q was somehow still processing the emotions he’d felt when he di – was killed.

And Alice was powerless against all of that.

She’d never really had the time to figure out what to do for him. In the brief periods when they’d actually been in a relationship, it was like they just smashed themselves together, simply for the sake of having another person to pick up their pieces. Vulnerability was something they’d engaged in out of necessity. Like, “Soothe what’s hurting now, so it doesn’t get us killed when we have to face the bad guys.” And mostly, he’d been the one opening himself up as a way to help _her_ , not the other way around.

So what could she do now, when she didn’t have the words, literally or otherwise, to return the favor. Chase after Julia and reveal herself, unknown consequences be damned? Get everything as ready as possible, so that he could just jump into the second task whenever he snapped out of it?

No. She knew better. Quentin didn’t “snap out of it.” He shone, brighter and brighter, the more he believed in something, like a bulb on a rising dimmer switch. Or like the moon, when the right strong wind blew the dark clouds away until the sky was clear.

She’d talked him into making a flower bloom once. That didn’t mean she was good at moments like these. When there was literally nothing she could say. 

(And would things have turned out differently if she hadn't convinced him to make the flower bloom?)

The answer was simple. She had to go get Eliot.

Alice flew out of the room without a second thought. It wasn’t too hard to find an open window. Now that much of the house had returned to their beds, the telltale slivers of moonlight made it easy to find her way outside.

If she’d slowed down a little along the way, she’d have noticed a figure kneeling on the kitchen floor.

Julia heard the buzzing of wings fly over her head, but the insect was gone by the time she jerked her head up to look. Once the noise died, she bent her head down again, and worked her fingers beneath a loose stone slab in the ground. Prying it up, she reached down into a hole dug beneath it. Out of the hole came a few cans of evaporated milk, tins of beans, a roll of hard cheese, a newspaper stolen from an officer’s bedside table, some cheap alcohol, and a few envelopes.

There was a scuffling sound. A shadow fell in front of the fireplace, and Julia lept to her feet.

“It’s me,” Doctor Fogg whispered.

Julia sighed in relief, and knelt back down to resume packing the sack by her knees.

Fogg moved closer. “Apologies for startling you.”

“It’s fine. You coming with me this time?” she said, eyeing the doctor’s bag in his hands.

“Might as well.”

Julia rolled her eyes, but didn’t risk saying anything more. Making any noise at all was asking for trouble. She was still a little pissed he didn’t come with her last time. That raid today, where Reynard’d found the antibiotics she’d worked so hard to smuggle out, still left a sour taste in her mouth. If Fogg’d gone with her, maybe they wouldn’t have lost something so precious.

Julia replaced the stone slab in the floor and turned to ask him if he was ready to head out. Together, they eased open the kitchen door and made their way across the field. The moon had grown brighter since last night. There was something about its waxing shape that tugged at the edge of her mind. Something important.

Fogg followed in her footsteps as she traced a path into the trees. They ducked down for cover every once in a while as a solider passed nearby on patrol. She remembered the direction of the river, and used the North Star for reference as she wound her way through the trees. Soon enough, she could hear it, and the rushing sound of the water became a better guide than the little light in the sky before long.

To make sure no one could trace their footprints, or send dogs after their scent, she trudged right into the river, not bothering to stop to check that Fogg was still behind her. He hadn’t said anything yet, but she could tell he wanted to. There was a tension in his gait. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. It was a little satisfying to let him keep stewing on whatever it was.

Her mind still wrestled with thoughts about the moon. Had there been some kind of deadline the Hedges set up, and it was approaching? Was there something about Quentin’s time here that she needed to remember?

It seemed ages ago that she’d brought him inside from being battered by the storm, instead of hours. She’d had to shove all of her confusion and worry away as the night had grown more and more complicated. There hadn’t been a chance to talk with him about why he had the Binder and the keys, after she’d left him in Jane’s room. And then Jane’s illness had taken a turn for the terrifying, so…

Actually, there had been the chance to try. Just now, when they were sitting on the bed. She’d had every chance. He practically asked her about it. Why hadn’t she trusted him? Why had she jumped at the chance to protect her secrets first?

She nearly slipped on a smooth rock in the river, its surfaceface smeared with a blanket of algae. She righted herself, pointedly ignoring Fogg reaching out for her.

Because she’d forgotten. She realized that now. She’d genuinely forgotten about the Binder and the keys. She didn’t once remember that she was here for him, and only him, that whole time.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Oh god, what was happening to her?

“You really shouldn’t stay here,” Fogg said.

She kept her eyes on the rocky water in front of her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s far too dangerous,” Fogg said. He took a large step to catch up with her, his leg sinking up to his calf. “If you keep fighting him, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

She expected herself to be angry. His question stank of cowardice. Instead, there was something like a… superiority of understanding threading through her. Maybe the power in her shawl was trying to help her a little. Trying to deconstruct some of the chaos inside her. After all, she knew that this place was a just a part of the Underworld, and Fogg didn’t.

“What about you?” she deflected.

“I don’t care about me,” he said with a soft sigh.

Somehow, she could tell he meant it.

“What I’m trying to say,” he huffed, wading into a shallower section of the mud, “is that he’s too powerful. He has too many friends, too many resources. All of us are…single worker bees. And he’s the keeper who’s ready to set fire to the hive if he’s stung too many times. And I can’t just sit here and say nothing. Not when everything you’re all doing is just going to lead to more needless death. He’s going to find out about us one day. It’s inevitable. And it’s going to get you killed.”

“You’re wrong,” she said with a smile.

Before he could argue, she heard the whistling call of a hawk. She placed a hand up to get Fogg’s attention, and then put that finger to her lips. Hawks were never awake this late in the night.

She heard it again, a second call off to their left. There was a cracking sound. Boots heedlessly snapping sticks under their heels. She turned toward the sound. A beaming, relieved smile exploded on her face, and she rushed forward. “Kady,” she cried out.

The noise of the river ensured her voice didn’t carry far. Climbing up the bank, she rushed forward to hug her close, squeezing her and leaning her forehead against her shoulder. A few more Hedges were descending the hill towards her and Fogg, shouldering their rifles. She could feel Kady’s smirk on the side of her neck, and she squeezed her tighter, even though Kady wasn’t much of a hugger. It was as if the world, after being askew for a long time, was righting itself.


	15. The Motivation to Continue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please have this nice, long chapter, because you've been the most patient darlings with my updates. I'm afraid I can't get the scary Second Task chapter out in time for Halloween like I'd hoped, because it's not ready. But I can offer a ton of angst and talking about feelings instead? Also, mild gore warning for the first part of the chapter.

Julia felt lighter. Even though Kady’s appearance should’ve set off all of her alarm bells, she was outright beaming. They trekked through the forest without speaking. Every so often, Kady peeked back at her and shot her a smirk before pressing on ahead. It was her own way of sharing Julia’s mood, like a feedback loop. That was what Fogg didn’t understand. He hadn’t been out here often enough, been with the Hedges enough, to see what kind of _hope_ they lived in, the strength they found just by being together, and fighting for a just cause together. So Julia did smile, and she smiled wide.

Kady led them to the mouth of a cave, hidden between a crack in a rocky cliff on the side of the mountain. Ducking their heads and winding their way down, down, down, they soon emerged into a wide cavern.

It was filled with some forty or fifty people, all of fighting age. Dozens of lanterns cast a weak light on their haggard faces. Each of them had left everything behind when they decided to rebel against the Order. Their friends and families couldn’t know anything about where they were; couldn’t even know they were alive. The Order had ways of making someone talk. Or ways to use someone as bait for a trap.

But Julia grew even more at ease, somehow. Because she wasn’t alone here, didn’t have to hide herself away here, didn’t have to fear for her life here. And every solider in their little band felt that too. It was just one of the things that united them all together, just as much as their common cause.

The Hedges who’d followed Kady in with Julia and Fogg dispersed back to join their friends. Julia slung her sack off of her shoulder and opened it. A few women went over to her when she started pulling out the meager supplies. She told them what she’d brought as she handed the contents over, the milk and the cheese, the beans, and so on, so they could include it in their inventory. She passed the newspaper over to a man she remembered was Gummidgy’s partner, and he began reading aloud the story on the front page to those around him. Several Hedges got up to get closer to him, to see the pictures on the front, or to hear the news for themselves. It was the only kind of entertainment they could get out here.

Julia handed a letter to Silver’s wife, snorting in amusement when she snatched the letter out of her hands and shuffled away, her nose already buried in the pages. She handed over a few other letters two, like one from the lodge’s cook to his son, and another from one of the servants to their lover. She hadn’t been able to hand them over when she’d smuggled the antibiotics out, and was glad to do so now.

Fogg, meanwhile, went over to a stretch of rock and opened up his bag. People drifted over to him in twos and threes, and he went to work. He sterilized and bandaged small wounds, recommended treatments for sprained limbs, and stitched together deeper cuts. All from skirmishes with the Order. And, if you asked him, all hinting at how much borrowed time they were on.

Sitting against one of the nearby cavern walls, there was Todd. Julia pulled out the bottle of alcohol and handed it to Kady. She nodded once, and together they plopped down on the blankets next to him. Todd managed a weak smile when he raised his head over the top of his book. It was a Western, judging by the cover, and he was probably on his third read-through.

“Hey,” Todd said to them, trying not to grit his teeth. “Ss-s-so now t-t-that you’re here, we g-g-get to g-g-go home now, right?”

She’d been by to visit a few times, but hearing him stutter like that still threw her off a little. It was a sign of PTSD, she suspected.

How many battles had he been in? How many friends had he lost? How many horrors had he seen? Julia tried to come up with something to say. But Todd’s leg was the elephant in the room here. A stained pile of cloth, shreds of linen from whatever they could get their hands on at the time, was wrapped around it from knee to toe. A draft from the mouth of the cave kept any worrying smells from their noses. But the sweat beading on his brow, and the heaviness of his breathing, gave her reason to suspect he was already dealing with an infection. One that’d brought a fever in its wake. The antibiotics they’d lost today were meant for him.

Kady snatched the book out of Todd’s hands, setting the whiskey down next to him. “The second you decide to get off your ass and kill Reynard yourself, you’re free to go.” Despite the harsh words, Kady’s eyes wrinkled and she gave him a half smile, so show she was kidding.

And that was probably the worst sign of all. She was being nice.

Todd’s eyes lit up, but then they widened and he gulped. “Like, c-can’t Julia, I d-d-dunno, s-s-slip him poison or s-s-something?”

“And who’d you think’s the first person they’d go after if she did?” Kady snarked, pulling her rifle onto her lap and snaking an oil rag out from her pocket.

“Right, shit. Duh,” he said, pursing his lips in apology.

“It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, though,” Julia confided. She offered a sympathetic smile, and the tension eased from his face. She popped the cork off of the whiskey, and handed it to him.

She tried not to think about the sheer amount of times she could’ve slipped something into Reynard’s food. Because, frankly, it was goddamn infuriating. Every meal on the menu, every decanter of scotch, Julia ended up serving him personally. It was probably his way of issuing her a challenge. Seeing just how far she was willing to go to play her part. There was every chance he already knew she was working against him. He was just demonic enough to entertain himself with the charade, rather than reporting it to his superiors.

“You’re doing plenty,” Kady said to her, not looking up as she ran the rag along the barrel.

Julia grimaced. It was a long-standing argument between them. Julia often accused herself of not doing enough, and Kady refused to believe her. It’d been like that since the beginning.

Wait. Had it?

Had Kady been here with her since the beginning?

She tried to remember that first day. It was just after Alice accused her of stealing Quentin’s book. She’d packed up her things, and transported herself here with the Dragon’s Breath. Then she had cast a spell and…what had she done? Something that…no, she arrived here and then asked for work at the lodge. She found out about the Order and the Hedges…No, she’d asked for work, lying that she needed work because the Hedges had killed her family, when really she needed to be there because…because the Kady and the Hedges needed her to…No, she’d needed to figure out where Quentin was first, so she’d…

Goddamnit.

Todd saw the look on her face. He plastered on his usual, somehow still genuine smile, even if he had no idea what was going on in her head.  And he did the one thing he knew he could do: he handed her the bottle. She raised her eyebrows, but accepted it with some muttered thanks and took a long drink, the burn drifting down into her stomach. She needed it, after the day she’d had.

The wool in her shawl itched at her forearms.

Fogg finally made his way over to their little trio. He couldn’t put it off any longer, apparently.

“Todd,” the doctor said with a sigh.

“Hi, D-d-doc,” Todd said, looking for all the world like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Like it was somehow his fault he had legs in the first place, much less that one of them was seriously injured.

Fogg took off his suit jacket, and Todd somehow widened his eyes even further. Because if Fogg was shedding a part of his beloved suit, then…

“I’m g-g-gonna lose my leg, aren’t I?” he whispered.

“Let’s see,” was all Fogg said.

If there was any hesitation in Fogg taking off the bandage, Julia didn’t see it. He’d slipped on his mask seamlessly.

The wrappings came off easy at first. As he got further in, and pealed more layers away, it became a little harder to take them off without Todd hissing in pain. The smell got five times worse. When the final cloth was pulled away, Julia tried not to gag.

A wide, gaping bullet hole rose like a volcano in the middle of Todd’s shin. Discolored veins were visible underneath the tissue. Fogg rolled up his sleeves. He gingerly pressed his fingers onto the swollen flesh, and Todd cried out each time Fogg had to move his fingers to check the muscle. There wasn’t any exit wound, meaning the bullet, and possibly some cloth from the leg of his pants, was still festering inside. There was every chance it’d hit, or even shattered, the bone.

If Fogg'd been here during the first hours of the injury, there'd be some hope. Sure, Todd could still feel pain; the nerves were still working. But that'd been nearly a week ago, according to Silver. And with the veins, the infection…

Fogg took in a deep breath, and withdrew his gentle touch. “Todd, there’s no way to save this leg.”

All of the chatter in the room dropped away. Todd started to hyperventilate. Julia pressed the bottle back into his hands, and he put it to his lips instantly. When he stopped drinking to take in some air, he said, “So just, just, t-t-take it off now, then. Before it k-k-kills me, right?”

Fogg swallowed and nodded, his face carefully neutral. He went back over to his bag. He started to give quiet instructions to some of the Hedges, asking them to build a fire and then boil some water. Others, he asked to find the cleanest linens they could manage. Todd went back to downing as much whiskey as he could.

Julia’s pulse began to race. She turned to Kady, her eyes begging that they do something. Kady just shook her head, setting her rifle aside. She stood up, brushed a hand along Julia’s shoulder and went over to talk with Fogg, who was extricating a bone saw and some scalpels.

No. Please God no.

She reached out and laced her fingers into Todd’s free hand. He gripped it so hard she almost lost all feeling.

There had to be something she could do. Couldn’t they leave the Underworld, with Todd in tow? Rush him to a hospital before it was too late? He’d followed her here in the first place, hadn’t he?

Had he?

She genuinely had no idea. Fuck.

If they did leave, who would continue leading the fight? Neither she nor Kady would let the other stay behind, not with Reynard so close. And there was the issue of getting Q and his mother out of that fox bastard’s shadow.

One person wasn’t worth leaving this all behind. Right?

The hand not currently being crushed by Todd’s started to tingle. At first, she thought it was just pins-and-needles, residual feeling. But then, her fingers sparked. Like that time...the time she showed Q she had magic three…ye-ar…days…months…. No, she’d never shown him…

She blinked, tried to focus. As soon as she decided to see if the sparks happened again, they were there. She felt magic start to gather on the edges of her skin. And that distant _sense_. Like a headache, or the slight high from second-hand pot smoke, but _more_ and better. More _knowing_. She briefly worried if anyone in the cave saw the magic, but that was driven away as her mind grew sharper, honed in. Her shawl began to shimmer. Its fibers glowed, as if live electrical wires ran through its stitches.

She could do this. It was worth it. That’s what she’d said to herself, when she couldn’t decide before. That this was an option. A resort for extreme circumstances.  

She was…being drawn out of herself. Everything was identifiable, understandable…and…malleable. If she followed the little signals, the little lives of the nerve cells, out of her hand, across the semi-permeable membranes of the cells Todd’s hand.

_Follow every nociceptor and the dendrites attached to them, through the wrist, through the forearm and biceps, through the shoulder, into the spine, down, down, down, across the hips, and quadriceps and…there._

_That intruding chunk of metal. Pushed into Todd’s tissues because it was unable to resist the forces stronger than itself. Not its fault, but an invader nonetheless. And an easy thing to….wait. Flood the nociceptors with potassium to turn them off, for just a bit, first._

Todd gasped, filling his entire chest cavity with air. She felt the dopamine flooding his brain in relief. 

She held her free hand out, over the red protrusion that’d gone silent but was still crying out for help. She asked the metal to break down into atoms, disintegrating it into little flecks that she drew out of his flesh and blood and settled down in a little pile of dust near her skirt, to scatter and be free, and never be used to kill again.

Her shawl lost some of its sheen. Her power was flowing into her. It _was_ her.

_And she could knit the osteoblasts back together, fill the cavities with rich blood, rejoin all of the torn fibers, purge the bacteria and the gangrene by nudging the leukocytes into overdrive, bring down his body temperature by slowing down the vibrating atoms to chill the air around him, drastically speed up the mitosis of the surrounding cells–_

“Holy shit,” Todd whimpered.

As they watched, the veins lost their discoloration, fading back out of sight. Frost tinged the edges of his clothes. A bright glowing light shone out of the center of their joined hands. It caught the eyes of several Hedges all around. Kady turned to see, and she grabbed Fogg by the shoulder. He followed her gaze, and his mouth hung open.

In the back of her brain, Julia realized that she was doing too much. Not that there was a threshold she was in danger of crossing. God-magic didn’t work like that. But she knew that she needed to pull back, and soon.

So she did. She stopped _connecting_ with all of the life around her. It was like dragging herself away from the climactic moment in the final book of a series she was reading for the first time.

Kady ran over to her, and guiltily she yanked her hand out of Todd’s. He let out a surprised wail, tears trickling down his cheeks.

Oh shit, that meant his pain was back. In full force.

“Jules, what – what was that?!” Kady said, grabbing onto her by the shoulders.

Fogg followed a few steps behind. He knelt down and snagged Todd’s wrist, checking his pulse.

“I don’t…I think…” Julia murmurred. Her words came out hoarse, and suddenly she was starving and lightheaded.

“That was – is magic back?” Kady asked.

Before Julia could answer, she was already trying a few tuts. Nothing came of them. She frowned, but any further questions she wanted to ask were derailed when Fogg withdrew his hand from Todd’s wrist to press it to his forehead. The wound had taken on a cauterized sheen, as though it’d been healing for weeks. Several Hedges started to make their way over. Kady tossed the bloody cloths back on Todd’s leg before anyone could get a better look.

Fogg noticed their approach too. He cleared his throat, and announced, “Now that I’m thinking about it, let’s not give up on it just yet.”

Julia schooled her expression into a relieved smile, and she quickly checked with a few faces in the crowd to make sure they could see it for themselves.

“Your fever just broke,” Fogg continued, leaning into the performance. “Although you may not be out of the woods yet, that’s the best sign I could have asked for. So we’ll keep an eye on it.” To hit the point home, he even rolled down his sleeves and reached his hand out. Todd automatically grabbed the jacket Fogg set aside earlier, and handed it to him in a daze.

As Fogg righted himself, Kady said to Todd, “You start getting better, you hear me? No more bullet holes for a while, not ‘til you eat all your veggies.”

Julia almost cringed at that, but Kady was apparently laying it on just thick enough. Their audience started to disperse again, many of them coming forward to offer Todd their encouragements. Fogg finished retying the bandages around Todd’s leg, and although he didn’t need to fake the groans of pain, Todd did do his part to sell the whole story. He certainly took the hint about staying quiet where Julia’s powers were concerned.

Kady stood, helped Julia to her feet, and they gravitated away from the crowd with Fogg to stand off to the side together.

No one said anything for a few moments. Just yesterday, they’d each been wrestling with the idea of Todd being crippled for life, at best. At worst? Well…

Finally, Kady crossed her arms. Keeping her voice even, and making sure not to look at Julia to avoid suspicion, she asked, “So was that a one-off? Or is there more you can do?”

“I don’t know,” Julia said.

It was at least partially true. Whatever her powers were, they seemed to be grounded in what she was willing to do. What _she_ wanted to do. At least, so far. It’s not like O.L.U. was sending her messages this time around, guiding her, helping her powers grow the more selflessly she used them. This time, it was just _all_ there. And she’d tapped into it like muscle memory.

“Don’t you dare,” Fogg said through gritted teeth.

Julia shot him a look, but his eyes were zeroing in on Kady’s face rather than on hers.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Kady said.

“She’s not a bomb that you can set off on the Order.”

Julia and Kady both started to protest, trying to keep their voices down. He let them go on, not saying anything, until they ran out of arguments and their voices died back down.

When they both grew silent, waiting for him to speak, he uncrossed his arms and massaged his forehead. “Even if reinforcements arrive, even if you finish Reynard off, with magic _or_ without it, the Order _will_ send another captain. Someone just like him, or worse. And you don’t have enough guns. This shelter in the woods won’t last long, especially if he starts widening his net. What’s more, you’re still struggling to _feed_ people here, much less fight a losing battle. If you really care about Julia, you won’t unleash her onto our enemies. You won’t keep her here to heal the wounded like a miracle cure. You’ll take her away from here, leave it all behind. Because that’s the only way any of us will get out of here alive.”

Julia expected Kady to lash out with even more ferocity than before. But she didn’t. And the longer her silence went on, the more Julia’s mind started to buzz.

Give. Up.

She couldn’t believe Kady was being swayed by his lecture, even for a moment. She dug into the folds of her skirt, her fingers dodging around the paring knife, until she felt the key. She’d stuffed it in her pocket in her room, after she left Q in the attic. She’d stolen it the day before Reynard sent her to collect Jane. Lying to Zelda about there being only one copy? It’d been one of today’s little victories.

She thrust the key out to Kady. Looking defiantly at Fogg the whole time, she said to her, “I got this for you too. They just finished tallying everything this afternoon. Don’t do anything for the next couple days. He’ll be expecting that. But when you see the chance, raid the storage for everything you can.”

Kady blinked a few times, then took the key from her. She turned it over in her fingers, then raised her eyes to meet Julia’s. There it was: that rock-steady determination that kept Julia together when she was seconds from cracking.

Fogg could preach caution all he liked. He wasn’t the one who’d sacrificed everything to turn magic back on. Julia didn’t know how to give up; it wasn’t in her nature. And she never wanted to become the kind of person who did.

“Is all this really worth your deaths?” Fogg asked quietly.

Kady directed her gaze at him, raising her chin as she said, “If that happens, at least we'll be making things a lot harder for that evil son of a bitch.”

* * *

 

Eliot was fucked. And not in the _I decided to switch tonight and now I’m hobbling for the rest of tomorrow_ way. More like _the last time I saw you like this was a really really bad day at the Mosaic, and I hadn’t been able to help then either_.

Alice buzzed past Eliot’s ear, dropping the invisibility she’d used to sneak him into the attic. She flew over to Quentin’s side. He was lying on the bed, eyes open, but he wasn’t looking at anything. He didn’t even seem to register that Eliot was in the room.

How the fuck had tonight gone so fucking wrong. They’d just been talking at first. Easy things. And then, predictably, things turned into a minefield, where every other fucking step exploded in his fucking face.

When Eliot got angry at others, he usually went quiet. It was a trait he’d gratefully borrowed from Margo. They’d been on the tail-end of their time at Brakebills South, relishing having their voices back, and he’d asked her why she “did that thing she did” when she was furious. She tried to brush it off, but after a few pokes and prods, and considering they’d been – _gasp –_ vulnerable with each other earlier, she relented.

“Being loud’s too easy,” she’d told him. “Anyone can do it. And it looks messy. Lets people dismiss you as ‘out of control.’” Then she raised her eyebrows and smirked, leaning closer like she was sharing state secrets. “Going monotone? It’s scary. Makes you respectable. Unpredictable. It shows that you’ve still got your armor on, that they haven’t found their way in.”

And Eliot agreed. If he was gonna keep remaking himself, then his anger would be quiet. Quiet was powerful. It was the exact opposite of Indiana, of the man who happened to share half of Eliot’s genes. Loud was for parties, for celebrating, for joy. Only those truly close to him, those he trusted, would see his loud anger out in the open.

But when he was angry at himself?

In their sixties, half-way through patching things up after a giant argument, Q’d turned over on his side in their bed. He said to the wall, “When you’re really hating yourself, El, you’re like this…already-bleeding heart. That’s wrapping itself up in thorns.”

He hadn’t been in the mood for metaphors that night, and said as much. He’d felt Q holding himself back from sniping “it was a simile,” and starting the fight all over again. But he knew Eliot knew what he meant, and let it slide. When Eliot hated himself for doing something, he was vicious. Both inside and out. He lashed out, always quietly, and with every sneer the thorns pressed into him tighter in punishment. He had no armor against himself. And Q didn’t want to cause any more harm that night, to either of them.

It wasn’t quite something Eliot ever grew out of. He just got better about not doing it. During that timeline-that-never-was, they’d smoothed out each other’s edges. The bumps never went away, but that was okay. That was part of the love they were still building together, a love they never stopped building. Their love didn’t stagnate; that’s not what real love was. There was no such thing as a stagnant love, a completed love. They’d stayed together because they’d dedicated their lives to each other, dedicated themselves to the love that was always going to keep changing and growing between them.

But…also…because there was the Quest looming over their heads, silently. Shrinking in fractions as the decades went on, but never gone. It wasn’t _not_ keeping them together, after all. They’d talked about what they would do, if one of them died before the puzzle got solved. How one of them had to keep working, as hard as that would be, without the other.

He’d never asked Q when exactly he’d gotten the third key. How long Q’d had to live without him. Eliot hadn’t meant to die first.

That key quest had finished quietly, too. Quietly and powerfully. But their present-day timeline just kept going, somehow, after. They'd been given the chance to rebuild their bond. Or, really, in some ways, to just keep building it. And to do so just for the sake of doing it, on their terms. How very _Back to the Future_. Except things hadn’t instantly gotten better, once everything in the past happened like it was supposed to.

Thanks to him.

In more ways than one.

Waking up post-possession, his new quest was supposed to've been Quentin. But one of them had died before the other again. Before Eliot could put back the puzzle whose pieces he’d practically incinerated.

And not kissing Q in the labyrinth earlier, had that been him running away again? Had he been wrapping his heart in those thorns all over again, instead of being brave like he’d promised? He had no idea. Because how could being “braver” mean he'd be forced to hold onto his love, to hold it back, even though his original promise was to not hold it in any longer?

Or…was this what Q’d had to do? Hold his love back all through the rest of the Key Quest, and all through enduring the Monster, because he had to. Or else the whole thing would fail.

He went over to the bed, knelt, and reached for one of Q’s hands. It pulled away from him.

Oh. So that’s how this was gonna go.

“Alice,” Eliot said, turning his head to her. He didn’t raise his voice above a soft hum. “Have you seen _The Binder_ , or the keys?”

“No, I didn’t see them when I got in here.”

He stood back up, still keeping his voice even. “Can we cast a locator spell?”

“You don’t need to,” Quentin croaked, like his voice was being dragged out of him by force. “They’re in my suitcase.”

Alice visibly relaxed. She laid a tiny hand on his arm. “We just didn’t want anyone else to find them.”

When Eliot repeated her words, Quentin pulled his arm up against his chest. He turned over on his other side.

Well, _that_ hadn’t changed. Q always hated being treated like he was made of glass, like he was a hindrance. Something to deal with. But if Eliot was right, there was still a little fight in him tonight. Turning on his side might also mean he was trying to save himself from more pain. In any case, he wasn’t catatonic, not like he’d been other times.

So. Eliot knew what to do.

Alice turned back to him. “Can you get him to tell us what happened?” she asked.

“So, what, we can magically fix it for him, and then he’ll be magically okay to keep going?” Eliot said coldly. Alice frowned, surprised, hurt, and ready to retort back. He waved at her to pump the brakes, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was a silent “trust me on this.” Her frown deepened, but she gave a single nod.

“Can’t you?” they heard Quentin ask quietly, not without a little bitterness and desperation and hope all at the same time.

God, there he was. _Their_ Q. Putting his faith in magic like he had in the beginning.

And because he hadn’t learned yet that magic didn’t give a flying fuck whether it did good or bad…

Eliot was going to have to crack him open.

“Why?” Eliot said. “None of this is real, Q, remember? Or did you forget yourself again already?” The words burned his mouth like acid as he said them.

Quentin’s eyes snapped open.

 _That’s it, Eliot._ _Here come the thorns_.

“No, I didn’t,” Quentin said, clenching the sheets in his fingers.

“The moon’s almost full,” Eliot said. “If you wanna stay here and live like this the rest of your fucking life, just keep lying there.”

“And I’m supposed to just leave everything behind?” Quentin shifted, pushing himself up off of the bed to shoot Eliot a dark glare. Then he blinked and looked away, trying to hold himself back, wondering if it was safer to withdraw again.

Eliot swallowed, but kept himself steady. He couldn’t let this mask slip, not if it was working. He narrowed his eyes, and pointed straight at Q’s chest. “You said you were gonna ‘fix’ yourself. Well, that’s how you have to do it. It’s not that hard. None of this shit _matters_.”

He didn’t dare look at Alice, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye. Her wings were twitching and fluttering. Her eyes darted back and forth between them like she was watching a sped-up tennis match. There was only so far he could push this before she started yelling at him too.

“I was wrong.” Quentin’s voice almost broke as he slid his feet to the floor and stood. He rounded the bed, his jaw clenched and his eyes wide, blinking several times as he clawed his way out of his head. “My mom could’ve died today.”

Eliot scoffed. “She’s not your – ”

“Yeah, you told me.”

Finally, Quentin looked Eliot straight in the eye. The dark circles under his lids made his pupils stand out all the more, brown pools hiding nothing but the raw pain he was swimming in.

Eliot couldn’t break now. If he had to unleash _Q_ on himself, so be it. It was what Q needed. And it’s what Eliot deserved.

Q raised himself to his full height. “And you said yesterday I could trust that the emotions behind everything were _real_.”

Fuck.

Just when Eliot thought he knew how this scene was gonna play out.

Q always knew how to deliver the sucker punches.

His mind supplied the image of the muddied Quentin from yesterday, the suit he believed to be his father’s in his hands. How close they’d stood together, the flirtation they’d slipped into without realizing it. And then, hours ago, the ghost of Quentin’s breath over his own lips. How Q had been trusting in that, only for Eliot to shrink away.

His memories were going to drown him.

“Yeah,” he barely managed to spit back, “so?”

“So abandoning everything isn’t gonna fix me. I can’t just leave things behind, here,” Quentin said. “Because…”

“Because what?”

“Because that’s not who I am.”

 _I know. I **know**_.

“The woman in the other room, whether she’s my mom or not, is pregnant. And she almost bled out in my arms. If there’s anything I can do for her and the baby, I have to try.”

“And would she do the same for you?” Eliot asked.

He only knew Q’s real mom from the stories he’d told him. How she’d always been convinced Q was about to break something if she left the room for too long. And how she’d eventually decided to just leave the room and never come back in again. Some of the anger he felt towards her was leaking through his question. And he hadn’t known how much that might be true here, too, until he saw Q shut his eyes and jerk back, like the words’d hit him across the face. Eliot watched as it took a few moments for him to shake off his pain and keep going.

“ _That’s_ what doesn’t matter. This is about doing what I _can_ , because there’s the chance to make things better instead of worse. It’s not fair for me to escape, not when everything could keep getting worse after I leave. If nothing else tonight, I’ve figured out this much: I can’t decide who matters and who doesn’t.”

_Even if the only one who matters here is you?_

And with that thought in his head, Eliot couldn’t keep this up any longer. He wasn’t here to hurt Q. He was here to save him. Last time, carrying around a god-killing bullet in his pocket, he thought he could go against Q’s wishes and they’d still come out on top. He wasn’t making that mistake again. If this was how they were making sure Q’s soul stayed intact, if this was how they could make sure Q stayed Q when he left here, then…

He finally made himself look away. “Alice, what do you say?”

She appeared almost surprised at being drawn back into the conversation. When her brain caught up to what he was really asking, and she saw the broken look on Eliot’s face, she looked affronted. She started to say something, bit her tongue, then hopped onto the crate beside the bed. She tried again, then stopped again. She paced from one edge to the other, rattling off reasons why they shouldn’t in one breath and coming up with calculations and the different tuts they could use with the other.

If Eliot wasn’t so busy trying to bottle up every single thing he was feeling, he’d almost feel really fond and grateful towards her.

Quentin sagged back down onto the bed, carding his fingers through his hair.

Eliot wanted to sit down and comfort him with the same intensity as his desire to sink into the floor and never show his face again.

Quentin was the first to pull himself together. There was an achingly familiar, resigned frown carved into his face as his hands fell away. He reached down and opened his suitcase, extracting _The Binder_ and setting it atop his Fillory books. Digging around a little, he then untangled the pouch with the keys from inside a few lonely socks.

Alice called Eliot over after she made up her mind. She rattled off seventeen different tuts, half of which he hadn’t used in a couple of years, then told him to go clear a section of the floor.

“And tell Q I need his suitcase.”

Eliot glanced over at him, unable to say anything more, and then back at her. The expression she gave him in return could have cut glass.

“Alice says she needs your suitcase.”

Q raised his head, almost asked what for, and then pitched everything onto his bed and handed it over to Eliot without a word. They avoided looking at each other.

Once the suitcase was in the floor, and a few sigils drawn in the dust around it, Alice flew over to perch on Eliot's shoulder. She walked him through the co-op cast, made sure his Hungarian accent wasn’t too nasally, and told him the tuts one more time.

When they started, in spite of the emotions still seesawing in his gut, Eliot felt microscopically better. Because he saw how Quentin couldn’t be more obvious about watching the two of them work.

Kid, meet candy store.

They probably made quite the sight. And the sound. Alice’s high pitched fae voice contrasted his as he tried not to stumble over the incantation. The suitcase started to vibrate on the floor, and there was a glow coming from inside. They finished their tuts at the same time, and there was a thump, like a small object had been dropped into it from a height.

“So you gonna tell me what we just did?” Eliot said after they spent a moment in awkward silence.

Alice told him to tuck the suitcase under the bed instead of answering. He sighed, telekinetically doing as he was told with a flick of his fingers. Quentin peered under the bed as it came to a stop, and then shot both of them a questioning look.

Alice adjusted her glasses. “The thing in there is a Tantarese,” she said once the suitcase was out of sight. “It’s like a, a distant cousin of a Matarese. From two demonic dimensions over.”

“Why do I know that name?” Eliot said.

“What?”

“Nevermind. What’s it do?”

“It’ll fix her. Q needs to put it under Jane’s bed the next chance he can. He’ll need to feed it his dreams every morning.”

“How’s he gonna do that?”

“Look, I know I have no right to ask,” Quentin murmured from the bed, “but can you tell me what all that was?”

“The thing inside your suitcase is going to help your mother,” Eliot translated for Alice. “Each morning, feed it a dream, and it will make her strong and healthy.”

“Um. How do I feed it a…dream?”

“That’s what I said,” Eliot said without thinking. When Q just stared at him, Eliot cleared his throat and shut his mouth. He had no right to keep talking.

“Write it down, maybe? Or tell it dreams you remember?” Alice hedged apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve never summoned one before. My niffin memories are vaguer than I’d like.”

Eliot repeated as much as he could, leaving out the niffin stuff, because they didn’t have the time to get into that. He also had a ton of questions for Alice, like how she thought a demonic thing from another dimension was a good solution. And why she thought it would work when Quentin’s “mom” may not even be a real person, much less one that a demon could nurse back to health. Not to mention whether that maybe-mom’s little bun-in-the-oven would be affected by the magic too. But it's not like he could ask them straight out. 

 _The Binder_ suddenly flipped its cover open and fell to the floor. They all startled at the noise, praying that no one in the lodge had heard. After a few moments, Quentin finally bent down and retrieved the book. He propped it open on his lap. Immediately ink started to swirl along the page.

 ** _The Binder wished to advise Quentin that, although he really should be focusing on the second task, the Tantarese would be fine with whatever ‘dreams’ meant to_ him**.

An illustration on the other page showed a figure, unmistakably drawn with Quentin’s likeness, cracking open a little suitcase. Nothing bad seemed to be happening to him either as, like panels in a comic, drawings emerged with the little figure sliding little papers in to the suitcase one by one.

“Quite the artiste, isn’t he?” Eliot remarked.

**_Having nothing but time on his hands, The Binder was happy to share his knowledge and skills. He also wished to compliment Alice on her quick thinking and her spellwork. Not just on the summoning, but on the clock as well._ **

“The clock?” Quentin asked.

They both turned to Alice. She shrugged, barely hiding a smile, and flew over to a large shape covered by a sheet. Bunching up the fabric in her little hands, she yanked the whole thing off to reveal the horned clock from home.

Quentin yelped in shock and clapped a hand over his mouth. He leaped off of the bed and bounded over to it, pressing his hands to his head. “It’s the. Clock. It’s _the_ clock!” he whispered.

Eliot was surprised too. As far as he knew, none of their little band of misfits had had the time to smuggle it into this place. For a duplicate, it was perfect. Whether Julia or Alice had recreated it from memory, the whole thing was radiating magical energy.

Quentin was also clearly itching to get his hands on it. He probably wanted to pry the glass off of its face, or look at the grains of the wood under a magnifying glass. Seeing it was probably the best thing that’d happened to him all night. Considering.

There was the rustle of a page turning, and Eliot saw the Binder was writing again. He picked up the book and started reading aloud to everyone:

“’Quentin must use the first key to open the first door. Each of the keys will open up the path before him. Be warned: the place he is travelling to is extremely perilous. Much more dangerous than before. The thing that slumbers within…it is not human, even if it appears that way.’”

Eliot’s throat seized up, grinding his narration to a halt. The illustration unfurling before him showed a face that still popped up in his nightmares from time to time. And if _that_ was who Quentin had to face tonight…Eliot wanted to slam the book shut and chuck it across the room.

**_The Binder would like to remind Eliot that these tasks are merely replicas. If Quentin survived an ordeal similar to this in the past, there is no reason to doubt he will make it through this one too_. **

Eliot let out a shaky breath. That was true. But it was also true that Quentin'd had time to rest before facing this particular hazard. And also hadn’t faced it alone.

 ** _Besides, Alice will be going with him_**.

“What?”

Quentin shook himself out of his reverie and turned to face Eliot. Alice tilted her head, her glasses sliding down her face a little. She pressed them back up and asked him if everything was okay.

“He says you’re going with him?” Eliot said.

She nodded.

“Wait, you knew that?”

“I had to adapt a little of Julia’s composition to make it work. But, yes. This one was designed to have something guiding him through it. If not me, then it would’ve just been something from Fillory, like Umber or the Cozy Horse.”

Now Quentin was the one whose eyes were darting back and forth. Eliot felt like he was under a harsh spotlight, and everyone’d gotten the script ahead of time except him. It was probably exactly how Q felt these days.

But Alice hadn’t thought to give him a heads up about this at all?

“But what about – ” he protested.

“It’s not going to change anything,” Alice said. She glared at him. “I wouldn’t do _anything_ that doesn’t guarantee his soul is restored on _his_ terms.”

Eliot’s face flushed. Quentin was staring at him, waiting for answers, caught in between so many people’s different ideas of how things were supposed to go. And what was Eliot doing now? Nothing but adding to the snares.

“Sorry,” he said, and forced himself to keep reading. “’One of keys will unlock a small door, behind which is an important artifact that he must bring back. Quentin cannot take anything else from there. His life depends on it.’”

Q’s eyes widened. He clenched the pouch of keys in his hand, directing glances first at the clock again, then Alice, and last and longest of all back at Eliot. In spite of everything he’d said to him tonight, why the fuck was he still looking at him like that?

He couldn’t just say nothing. So: mask back on.

“Off you go, then. Sooner you go, the sooner you get back," Eliot said.

 _Go be life partners with someone else for a little while_.

And the thorns pricked again.

Q’s face closed off. He undid the drawstrings, pulling out the keys one by one. When his fingers closed around the Illusion Key, a keyhole slid out of the clock. He reached up, fit it inside, and turned. With a click, the glass door popped open, revealing a shadowy corridor that the laws of physics said couldn’t possibly stretch out behind it. Alice gave Eliot one last glance, pressing her lips together into some kind of look that was her version of “trust me on this.” She then offered an encouraging smile to Q, and flew into the clock.

But Q didn’t follow right away. He hesitated. And suddenly Eliot couldn’t leave him without trying to fix things. To give him something to hold onto, considering what was waiting for him in there.

“Hey,” Eliot said, and he took a few steps forward.

Q turned back around, looking for all the world like a strong wind could blow him over.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said softly.

Q’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Me too.”

“What?” Eliot sputtered. “Why?”

Q shifted, and the floorboards creaked under his feet. He fidgeted with the pouch in his hands. “For letting my head get the best of me. I made you rush back tonight, because I…assumed things. And then I ran back here after what happened in the fountain, without thinking of my mom, and didn’t notice her ‘til it was too late, then broke down, made Alice come get you and then made you – ”

“After all you’ve been through?” Eliot went right up to him. “No wonder you were curled up in bed. Q, none of what’s happened is your fault. You were...a hundred percent right. About deciding who matters. I was way too cruel, just now. You didn’t deserve that.”

Quentin pressed a hand to his forehead. “But what if I did?”

“No!” Eliot pleaded, “Listen – ”

“I’m here, in this place, for some reason, right?”

That stopped Eliot cold. He hadn’t even considered Q’d had time to think about…any of that. He and Alice’d just showed up in a whirlwind, trying to get him out as fast as possible. It was shocking how Q’s brain really came after him sometimes.

“You said I’m not from here,” Quentin elaborated, with the same pained voice from just a moment ago. “You said I’ve been stuck here. Trapped here. And I can’t help but wonder how. And why. If you guys had to come rescue me, and had to figure out these tasks for me, then, what’d I do to get here in the first place?” He dropped his hands and swallowed. “But…I can’t even ask that, because you can’t tell me anyway. I just…I get why you had to be that way, just now. Because of all the shit you’ve gone through ‘cause of me.”

Eliot didn’t know what to say. Finding the right words was never his strong suit. He didn’t read as much as the others. He sometimes zoned out during shows and movies, when all those motivational speeches were happening. The ones that could send the hero onward to victory.

With one hand, he reached down, lacing his fingers into Quentin’s free hand. And with the other, he slid his hand around his neck, in the place he secretly thought it was destined to fit. Slowly, giving Q every chance to pull away if he wanted, he drew him close.

There was no resistance. Q sagged as the hug enveloped him. Like he always did. As if he was so used to the idea that he had to soldier on, to carry it all on his shoulders, until someone showed him it was okay to drop all that weight for a little while.

Eliot hoped this hug countered the other one he'd forced Q into earlier tonight, or at least eased some of its pain. “Like we said earlier, all the shit we’ve been through is dust. It’s nothing, if it’s for you,” Eliot managed, trying to give back as many words as he’d been given. Alice had said something along those same lines earlier. But they were no less true for him. So that didn’t mean he shouldn’t say them.

He squeezed Q a little tighter. “And…something else I just thought of. There’re stories out there kinda like the one you’re dealing with right now. Where the heroes think they have to, like, restore themselves, to be worthy of all the good things that're supposed to happen to them. And…you aren’t incomplete, okay? You don’t need to be fixed. You are who you are. And…I know that better than anyone.”

Quentin moved his head to the side. Not pulling away from the hug, just adjusting. Eliot could feel the words being turned over in his head, and hoped they were doing what he needed.

“Okay,” Q said.

“Okay.”

“You know what I just thought of?”

Eliot moved them, so his chin was resting on Q’s head. “Tell me.”

“When I first got here, before I met you? I told my mom a story. About this knight.”

“Yeah?” Eliot slid his fingers down along Q’s back, up and down.

“And the knight's daughter had to find these seven keys.”

Eliot jolted. He pulled out of the hug to look Q in the eyes. But he had to bite his tongue because he couldn’t ask and god fucking damnit he was going to have some WORDS for whatever cosmic being decided that Eliot wasn’t allowed to talk about their past right now.

A small, relieved smile crept over Quentin’s face. “I didn’t know where I’d read it. I just knew that I knew the story from before. And seeing these keys now, and seeing your _face_ right now? It means I’m already at least a little who I’m supposed to be. That I never lost who I am. I’ve been who I’ve always been, deep down. And I just need to keep letting that part come back.”

All Eliot could do was nod. Several times.

Q couldn’t hold back a little relieved laugh. His smile grew brighter, and Eliot soaked it up like a solar panel in sunlight.

“So I’ll see you when I get back,” Q said, clenching the pouch into his fist.

“Don’t take too long,” Eliot whispered, echoing what Q had said to him on the hill.

Quentin nodded, and he turned to duck into the clock and follow Alice hovering at the end of the corridor.

“And don’t take anything,” Eliot cautioned jokingly. As if Q would ever forget what a quest told him he had to do.

Q looked back and waved at him to show he'd heard. He tugged the clock door closed behind him. Eliot knelt down and watched the two figures get smaller and smaller, until they rounded a bend and were lost from view.


	16. Interlude IV: The Parallel Passage

_Excerpt from_ Margo Hanson v.40

_Written by Cassandra_

**NOTE TO ALL LIBRARIANS:**

THIS IS A ROUGH DRAFT AND SHOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED THE BOOK’S FINAL VERSION. 

THE PARAGRAPHS BELOW MAY UNDERGO CHANGES BEFORE BEING BOUND.

 

Okay. Margo had to admit it.

She was lost.

She’d tried to memorize their route at first. Every left, every right, every stairwell. But by the time they got to their eighteenth left, then ducked into their seventh stairwell to the third right, she couldn’t remember it all. Every hallway was identical. There weren’t even any of those convenient little navigational plaques she normally saw in the Library.

Frankly, the sight of just _everything_ was almost too much for her. She had to swallow a lot just to keep her breakfast down. Magic was literally dripping off of some of the walls. Whenever she glanced down, the sight of the floors made her dizzy. The closest comparison she could make was the feeling of wading through the shallow end of that wave pool, the one at Knott’s Soak City, when she was seven. The power emanated in bursts past their feet in all kinds of colors, and the magic actually rippled as their ankles passed through it.

Penny-23 maintained his distance behind her, keeping an eye out, while Penny-40 continued to lead the way. In theory, she and 23 could always Travel out, if they were led into some kind of trap. But in case shit hit the fan, like it always did, she’d been trying to make sure they could get back out the way they came in. ‘Cause this was the Underworld Library, and it was starting to give off some “hallways from _The Shining_ ” vibes, even without all the racist interior deco.

If this weren’t all life-and-death (not that it usually wasn’t), she might be tempted to think of the whole thing as an acid trip on the verge of getting interesting. Surrounded by magic, in all its psychedelic glory, with two Pennys on either side? Her old self, maybe four or five years ago, would’ve been into it. Would’ve called it a good time, even. These days, she was so tense she doubted any kind of massage would ever get all the kinks out. Short of her collapsing into a coma for a few years, anyway. And she sorta had Josh. Probably. She still needed to work all of that shit out. More than anything, she itched to just toss some battle magic through this whole thing. Give the tension some kinda outlet. Screw corridors and staircases, she could make her own doors.

“So, Old Penny, you met this chick before?” she asked. It was as good a time to break the goddamn silence as any.

Penny-23 stumbled slightly in surprise. If 40 was a little thrown off too, he didn’t show it. Margo wondered what it would take to make him break. Really break.

“If you wanna get technical,” 40 said, “his timeline came before yours.” There was a funny twinge in his voice as they rounded a corner.

“Before _ours_ ,” Margo corrected. “You’re not done with this one yet. Unless you were lying back in your little office.”

Another silence stretched on after her words. Margo usually relished it when she got people to shut up after she verbally bitchslapped ‘em. There wasn’t anything satisfying in it now, though. The Pennys, no matter which timeline, were both pains in the ass and not talkers, and this really wasn’t the time for 40 to clam up. Maybe she hadn’t used the right ammo. All this walking hadn’t given her much material to work with to get under his skin. The fact that 40 didn’t answer right away would’ve normally sent her straight into High-King-declaring-war mode. He’d supposedly given Alice a little something to prove he was on their side, but it’s not like Alice had stuck around to show it to either of them.

But still, that “if you wanna get technical” line? It had the ghost of Penny-snark in it. That prickly hedgehog of a way he’d reprimand people he was annoyed with.

Both of versions of these stupid assholes did tend to keep their promises, funnily enough. And they were loyal. To a ludicrous degree. They didn’t just change sides at the drop of a hat; not unless it was for a reason they believed in, down to their bones. From what she could tell, no matter how Librarian he’d become, they hadn’t sucked that part of 40 out of him yet.

“I wasn’t lying,” he finally said.

Even though it really shouldn’t’ve, a microscopic pinch of tension bled out of her shoulders just then.

“And you ain’t even fuckin’ close to proving that yet,” she retorted. “So get to it.”

“What exactly do we know about Cassandra?” 23 spoke up.

“You mean, what’s fact and what’s fiction?”

Alright, nevermind, 40 wasn’t getting off of her shit list any time soon. “Fuck off, Akinator. We don’t have the bandwidth for that shit,” she seethed.

She heard him sigh, and he looked back at her for a bit. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Trying to kick the habit.”

“Don’t care,” she shot back. Inwardly, she was a little thrown off. She only got genuine apologies like that from one person, and that was El, and usually only after a few cocktails. This Hash-Tag-Humbled Penny was like looking at him through a fun-house mirror.

He opened up a door that led them through a small waiting room. As they crossed the carpet (whose magic sparkled so brightly she had to squint) and went through another door on the other end, he said, “The tricky part’s that no one in the Library’s older than her. An’ it’s not like she wrote her own book or anything. Friend of mine, before I signed up, brought me to meet her. The weird thing was, she looked like Alice in, about, fifty years.”

Margo stopped in her tracks. “What?”

40’s hands did a minuscule “beats me too” kind of gesture, but the rest of his body barely twitched. Like he was remembering how to just…express himself. “She legit banshee-screeched when she saw me. My friend did her best to help, but like I said, she doesn’t like being around people she writes about.”

“’Cause that’s everyone,” 23 reasoned.

“Exactly.”

“Does she ever get time off?” Margo asked.

40 tilted his head.

Go figure. The biggest Library in the universe, staffed by the worst kind of nerds, and not one of them had a single ounce of imagination to put themselves in another person’s shoes. Margo scoffed. “Of course you never thought to ask. Guess she’s your authorial cash cow down here. You’ve got her hooked up to that spell like she’s a Tyson chicken in a cage.”

She didn’t give 40 the chance to defend himself, flicking her wrists at him to get him walking again. They closed the waiting room door behind them and filed out into another magic hallway. This one had little ripples of color instead of waves, and made her much less dizzy.

“We’re almost there,” 40 said. “Maybe we can – ”

Suddenly the last door at the very end of the hallway opened. A brunette woman walked out with a drink carrier full of coffee cups in one hand. Margo’s hackles started to rise. Things _had_ been going too well down here. It was just a matter of time before they got caught.

The woman was buried in her iPhone, at least, and she turned to the right and started walking away from them. 40 went forward again, much slower than before, not wanting to overtake her. She turned the corner, but apparently that was the same direction they needed to go, as 40 was forced to follow.

At least he didn’t seem all that phased. The woman was far enough down the hall already and still hadn’t turned around. Maybe he was thinking they’d bluff their way out, if she ever did turn around. Not all Librarians knew who they were.

But that wasn’t something to bank on. Margo knew her Fillorian fashion – she’d adopted it and then made it _hers_ for more years than she’d been studying at Brakebills, courtesy of the realm’s time difference. And that woman’s outfit was not up to the Library’s usual dress code of “restrained, with a dash of time on a curling iron.” First off, she was in a full-blown dress, not a pants suit. Second, there were familiar, intricate patterns of gold and red all along the bodice, and no grey in sight. It was distinctly Fillorian, no mistake. Shit, Margo would’ve sworn she’d even dyed her hair to match Margo’s highlights, like she’d seen some courtiers try when they wanted to win her favor.

Margo’s heart started to beat faster. That hairstyle was really fuckin’ familiar. It was her coronation hairstyle, all of her waves pressed smooth and silky and…

That dress was also. Her. _Motherfuckin’_. _CORONATION. Dress_. The strapless bodice with mandala designs of scarlet, cotton candy pink, and sunset gold. The weaves of pomegranate pleats cascading from around her hips down to the floor in layers. All that was missing was her crown. Margo was either going to have a heart attack, or she was gonna have a rage-induced aneurysm. At first, she had to keep herself walking, instead of stopping dead in her tracks. And then she had to keep herself from barreling down the hallway and slamming that woman into the wall. Even Penny-40 was looking as unnerved as…well, as he knew how to be. His arms weren’t swinging at his sides anymore. As they kept following the woman around the corner, his head twisted to the right and the left. He led them to a nearby door, jerking the handle to get them inside.

The sound of their little group coming to a stop made the woman turn around instinctively.

And she had Margo’s face.

Margo heard one Penny say “Julia?” while the other breathed “Kady?”

Margo’s clone dropped the coffee and her phone in an instant, and she fled down the hallway.

Margo kicked off her heels and sprinted after her. “HEY!” she screamed. She didn’t bother to wait for the Pennys, straight up leaping over the pool of coffee. Her bare feet slapped against the tile floor, splashing magic up into the air. The clone was still in heels, but she was running like she was in the fucking Olympics. Which made no sense, because all Margo could see was that sparkling fabric bouncing off of her own ass, and that dress should be tripping that bitch up and making her fall flat on her stolen fucking face.

If this was another fucking Margolem, she was going to execute everyone within a goddamn ten-mile radius. That was the only thing that made sense. Her fairy eye would be able to see through – or even just _see_ – if it were anything else.

It took three more corridors of pursuit, but finally they reached a dead end. The clone yanked open the door at the end of the hallway and slammed it shut behind her. A cacophony of screaming erupted from behind it. Margo slid to a stop, powering up a spell to blast the thing off its hinges.

“Margo, don’t!” one of the Pennys shouted behind her.

“Too late!” she snarled, laying one hand on top of the other and lacing her fingers together.

The door opened again, and the bitch with Margo’s face skittered out with her hands up. “Wai-wai-waitwaitwait!” she called out with one hand up, shutting the door behind her.

Margo fired off her spell, and a wave of force barreled down the hallway. The clone did some quick tuts and raised a full-body shielding spell. The wave glanced off of it and made a crater on the frame of one of the other doors, all while pushing the clone back and slamming her up against the door. The back of her head struck it, and she dropped her shield and slumped to her knees. Margo adjusted her stance and got ready to fire off some Magic Missiles, but a calloused hand grabbed her arm.

“Stop it!” 23 said. “It’s Julia!”

“The FUCK it is!” Margo said at the same time she heard 40 quietly say, “No, it isn’t.”

“That bitch stole my fucking face,” Margo spit out, pointing at the clone. She rounded on 40 and exploded. “You fuckers got some kind of fan club going on down here?!”

“What do you mean she stole your face? That’s _Julia_ ,” 23 said, still trying to hold onto her arm and keep her from casting any more magic.

Margo shoved him off and glared at 40. When he did nothing more than frown, glancing between the two of them and the figure down the hall, Margo grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into the wall. “WHAT THE FUCK IS – ”

“ **IF I MAY**!” the clone’s voice boomed, and she heaved herself up off of the floor.

They all turned to her, wincing as the echo cascaded down the hallway. Margo even let go of 40 out of instinct to cover her ears.

“Thank you,” the clone said, raising her eyebrows. She brushed herself off and put her perfectly manicured hands on her hips. “Now, whoever you each think I am, I’m sorry, but that’s not me.”

“Obviously,” Margo said. “That look you stole took hours to get right.” She took a few steps forward and mimicked the woman’s stance. “Scratch that, it takes a lifetime. You haven’t earned _me_.”

“Why do you keep saying it’s you?”

“’Cause it sure as fuck ain’t Julia,” Margo said, not bothering to turn to 23. There was every possibility the woman was gonna try something else, and Margo wasn’t taking any chances.

“Who do _you_ see, then?” 23 asked 40.

“He said Kady earlier,” Margo reminded him, before the other one could worm his way out of a straight answer. Then she narrowed her eyes at the clone. “You got some kind of illusion spell on you? Makes you look like people we know, so we don’t attack you?”

 _And strong enough that even I can’t tell you’re wearing it?_ she didn’t say.

Margo then watched her own face do something she hadn’t see it do in a long time: look embarrassed. The clone shifted on her feet, crossing her arms defensively and lowering her eyes. “After a fashion. I suppose I’ll need to explain. How long do you have before you must leave the Underworld?”

All that lofty language coming out of her own mouth just felt wrong to Margo. On a cellular level. “A while,” she deflected.

But 23 was apparently still thinking with his dick, because he just up and revealed, “How do you know we have to leave soon?”

Before Margo could turn and kick him in the balls for breaking Interrogation Rule #1, the woman sighed. “At this point, I know practically everything.” She straightened, turning to indicate the door behind her. “You’re here to visit my sibling, right?”

And then 40 up and broke the same rule, because he went and said, “Yeah, we are,” before Margo could even process what she was saying. She didn’t get the chance to rip him a new one either: the door thudded as someone hit it from the other side.

The clone turned to the door and called out, “Come on! You knew this was going to happen.”

 [TO BE DELETED:] ~~The person on the other side of the door wanted say that that didn’t matter, and that their sister was placing The Plot over the mental well-being of someone she was supposed to love and protect because that’s what siblings are SUPPOSED TO DO. But they were too busy barricading the door with every piece of furniture they could get their hands on to say as much.~~

“Is Cassandra on the other side of that door?” Margo muttered to 40 as they heard more bumps and crashes. At this point, coincidences were just a dime a dozen, and they were rolling in them like Scrooge Mc-fucking-Duck.

“Uh huh,” 40 said. He went to straighten his jacket. His hands froze about halfway up, like he was trying to decide whether to go through with it after all.

“Great,” she huffed.

“Listen,” the clone said to the door, “they need to be caught up on quite a few things. You just told me that, remember? Let me back in.”

[TO BE DELETED:] ~~The person behind the door wanted to insist that they didn’t, that things were going just _fine_ , but reasoned that saying as much would only make their sister push harder. ~~

“Hey, before you catch us up on anything, can you take that illusion off?” 23 asked.

“I apologize for the discomfort my appearance may cause, now that you know I’m not her,” the clone said, trying the doorknob and finding it [TO BE DELETED: ~~impishly, vindictively, cleverly~~ ] locked. “But it’s not an illusion. I cannot control who I look like. Nor have I ever been able to.”

“And why’s that?” Margo said.

“I’m happy to explain as soon as _someone_ stops behaving like a child.”

“Just explain now! If you know everything, then you know how short a fuse I got.”

“I don’t bend to your whims, Margo Hanson.”

“Well it looks like you’re bending to _hers_ ,” Margo prodded, smug.

There was a loud, delighted laugh from the door. Margo smiled when she heard it, kind of rooting for Cassandra in spite of everything. “Hey, Cassandra,” she yelled. “If you really don’t want us here, we can go. We’ll quit bugging you, alright?”

“No,” the clone ordered. Her stolen gold earrings swung as she turned to glare at them. “You are not leaving. Not now. Not with…not with everything that’s going on. We have information you need.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like…argh,” the clone groaned, trying the doorknob again.  “Darling, why are you being like this?” she said to the door.

“’Cause you’re being a bully. To someone who’s been bullied for literal eons,” Margo jabbed. Her words definitely struck a nerve. The clone gasped, and yanked her hand away from the knob like she’d been burned. Grinning, Margo let her stew in that for a moment. Then she stepped forward, shouldered her doppelganger aside, and tapped a light knock on the door. “Cassandra, honey?” she said gently, “Is it actually important? The stuff we gotta learn from you two?”

A brief, tense silence followed, and then, “Look that’s not…um, well, yes,” the voice behind the door admitted, their volume barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” Margo continued, keeping her voice level [TO BE DELETED: ~~, nodding despite the fact that the person on the other side couldn’t see. (Well, they had already seen it, just not with their eyes. But they knew she was nodding, and that helped convince them because it showed how considerate and understanding she was being.~~ ]. “I know that seeing our faces isn’t good for your head. You freaked out because she didn’t take a second to think. She was gonna suddenly have us all come in at once, yeah? Anything we can do to help make things easier?”

“Usually, if I turn my back, it helps a little. Or, or, I could, uh, make a blindfold.”

“Do whatever you need, and then just call out when you’re ready.”

They heard some grinding, screeching sounds from the other side, like large pieces of furniture were being moved away from the door. Margo glanced at the clone and folded her arms with a smirk.

Against all expectations, though, the woman pursed her lips, sighed, and actually said “Thank you.”

“You got a name?” Margo said, raising an eyebrow. She wasn’t going to acknowledge her gratitude. As if they were anywhere close to being friendly. “Otherwise, I’m happy to call you Copycat Bitch. It has a nice ring to it.”

Copycat Bitch gave an amused smile of her own. “That’s right, you see yourself, don’t you? It is a bit of a relief, if I may say so.”

“Look, we’ve got way too much _Into the Spider-Verse_ shit going on already – ”

“I’m not an alternate vers – ”

“Just. Give me. Your fuckin’ name.”

Copycat Bitch’s eyes darted to Penny-40. “’Calliope’ has suited me well before. I’ll permit you to use that one.”

It made sense why she looked at him: he was the only one who reacted in the first place. Or, reacted as much as he could. There was a lot of blinking, and he shifted his stance back and forth. His mouth even opened once or twice, like he was trying to ask questions at the same speed his mind was coming up with their answers.

“And while he’s got that permanent buffering icon hanging over his head,” Margo snorted, “I’ve been putting a few things together. We’ve been havin’ a big problem with other people looking like us. You got anything to do with that?”

Calliope shook her head. “Personally, no. But we have a few ideas on who they might be.”

40 then made some kind of disbelieving half-laugh. The light bulb must’ve finally come on.

“Care to share?” 23 said.

“How many of you are there?” 40 said. Awe had crept into his voice.

“The same number as all of you,” Calliope said, her eyes not leaving his.

“So there _are_ nine? And you’re still all…uh, _responsible_ for the same things?”

“To a point, although the definitions have changed as time’s gone by.”

40 finally registered that both Margo and 23’s patience was wearing thinner by the second. He tried to keep his face straight and his voice neutral, but a little excitement snuck back in. “Either of you ever read Homer?”

“Does it matter, if you’re going to explain anyway?” Margo drummed her fingers along her arm.

“He begins _The Odyssey_ with invoking a Muse. That’s her.” 40’s eyes lit up, like he was hoping they’d get it too.

Honestly, meeting another probably-immortal, definitely-douchey creature of myth was just another Wednesday in Margo’s book [TO BE DELETED: ~~pun intended, considering the medium you hold in your hands.]~~. Seeing her completely unphased expression made Calliope break into another grin. “I love it when people are not impressed by that.”

“And that ain’t gonna change,” Margo snapped. “Not ‘til someone tells me what you’ve got to do with the mess we’re in right now. And whether you really are gonna help us get out of it.”

A well-timed knock came from the door, and then the lock clicked. Margo shot a long, pointed look at Calliope while she turned the knob and opened the door. Inside was…not what she expected. Not that she'd thought it was gonna be some kind of torture dungeon, with manacles or a ball-and-chain situation. But she couldn’t tell if the actual inside was any better, or just as bad.

The walls were lined with writing surfaces of every kind. Chalkboards, legal pads, white boards, printer paper, touchscreen monitors. Writing implements floated around the room like they were in a zero-gravity chamber: pens, pencils, chalk, quills with inkwells, Expo markers, even wireless keyboards. Every other object in the room was either a chair or a desk, some standing, some sitting, some painted in a spectrum of cool tones on one end of the room and brighter shades on the other. And still more were carved from stone or wood, hand-sculpted metal, or plastic straight off the factory floor. Little threads of green magic, tiny hums and auras of spell work, held everything in place. Talk about living where you work.

The center of the room was some kind of circular mattress…nest…resting area that’d been sunk into the floor. Heaps of pillows and blankets and even bean bags lined the edges. A figure sat in the middle, their back turned, a grey Snuggie wrapped around their shoulders. Except…

“ _Q?”_ Margo gasped.

His hair, the longest she’d ever seen it, just like it’d been in Blackspire, trailed down his hunched back as he touch-typed at a keyboard. He wore his same old black long sleeve shirt; she could see his arms poking out of the Snuggie’s sleeves, and his spindly legs, clad in that worn old pair of black skinny jeans, were spread-eagled out in opposite directions so he could bend over whatever he was working on. Margo’s eye could see little blips of white light darting off into the air from the keyboard and through the walls, off to some unknown destination. There were also blue, snaking tendrils of magic winding their way into his temples. A grey bed sheet was bunched up nearby, and a part of it’d been torn off and wrapped around his head to cover his eyes.

“Nope,” the Q look-alike sighed as they kept typing. “Although it’s, uh, nice to hear he’s the one you see. I’d, I’d hoped it was going to be either him or Eliot.”

Part of Margo _really_ wanted to think this was just another memory-wipe thing. Especially with all of the spells lining the place. Eliot was dealing with something similar down in that “holding plane” place with Alice, right? That’d make this easier to face. She hadn’t seen Q in almost a year, and there was so, _so_ much she had to say. Things were still so _raw_.

But if Calliope looked like Margo, and she’d just said that her sibling was Cassandra then…

“Hi, Penny,” Cassandra said.

“Um, hi.”

“Not you,” they huffed, “the one who still hasn’t come in yet.”

It was true. After 23’d had his eyeful of the place, he’d found a corner stool to perch on like he always did. Calliope was heading towards the pillow nest, but 40 was still standing on the threshold. Margo dragged her eyes away from Q. She went over and snagged 40’s sleeve, dragging him in to stand beside her.

“Hi,” he said. His hands went for his pockets, hesitated, and then they finally dove in anyway.

“The room looks a little different than last time, I imagine?”

“Yeah. And…so do you?”

“This’s how the room’s always looked,” Cassandra said. They took a pencil out from behind their ear and, somehow, furiously erased whatever they’d just typed. They flicked the pencil up into the air and it hung there at an arm’s reach. “Magic being shut off stripped the room bare. What you saw was what they could give me so I could keep working.”

Calliope hopped down into the sunken circle. She settled shoulder-to-shoulder beside her sibling, facing away from them and propping a boyfriend pillow behind herself. She rubbed an arm along their back, and Cassandra froze for a second. “I hated seeing you in such a state,” Calliope said softly.

Cassandra put their hand over Calliope’s, squeezed for a second, and then adjusted their blindfold before continuing, “As for why you see Quentin, just like Margo does, while Penny-23 is seeing me as his timeline’s Alice, well, our bodies change depending on who’s looking at us. Like a boggart, only much, much more, um, helpful. We show you the person who’ll inspire you the most.”

40 started forward. “So why’d I see Alice back then and not…”

Cassandra turned their head towards him a little, grimacing in apology. “As much as you love Kady, and as much as she inspires you overall – which is why Calliope looks like her now – you were looking for someone who would have _every_ answer. Who would give you the right information to get you out of there. And who would’ve…well, _frustrated_ you into action. That’s inspiration too.”

“Oh.”

“And as for my hair back then…”

40’s eyes widened, like Cassandra had read his mind.

“I…haven’t had a haircut in about two hundred years?” Cassandra scratched the side of their head and kept typing with the other. “I usually keep it hidden with a spell or two of my own. Personal preference. And sorry, by the way. For how I was then. The stories tend to, well, build up in my head. When I can only write one at a time. It wasn’t very pretty in there. All the lives. The good. The very bad.” They shuddered, then recovered. “Oh, and Penny?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing. It will take a while to shake off the person they wanted you to become. But you’re on your way.”

He bowed his head. Even though he didn’t need to, he still wound up taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. A weight came off of his shoulders. But rather than him standing up straighter, Margo noticed that distinct Penny-slouch settle back on his spine instead. A smile prickled at the corner of her mouth. It really was some reverse-boggart shit that they could do.

 _That Q could do_ , a small part of her mind whispered. God, she just felt so… _much_ , seeing him here.

Cassandra turned their head in Margo’s direction then, and nodded once. Oh. Right. Cassandra knew. They knew what was going on in her head right now.

Margo swallowed. Time to squash those feelings down. She’d come here for answers, not therapy. “Cassandra, you ready to start explaining?” she said. She flicked the door shut with a quick tut and found the most throne-like chair in the room.

Cassandra barely hid the smile on their face the second Margo settled in her seat. “I’m not the best at CliffNotes.”

“If I do it, I’ll just wind up monologuing,” Calliope said, nudging her sibling playfully.

“No, you won’t,” they muttered.

“Using your gift to win arguments is _cheating_ ,” Calliope groaned. “ _And_ you knew I was going to spill that coffee and you made me get it anyway.”

“I didn’t make you do anything.” They truly smiled this time. It was that excited, semi-secretive one that Q used to bring out every once in a while, right before he was gonna reveal something big that’d get them closer to saving the day. Margo blinked her eyes very, very quickly. There must be some dust in the air. That was the only reason her eyes’d be watering right now.

Calliope sat back up, rearranging the folds of her clothes. “Alright. Besides myself and my sibling here – who once went by Ourania, in case you are keeping track, Penny – we believe at least three more of us are involved. Melpomene is the one most likely to've taken a shine to Quentin, and then Euterpe set her sights on Julia. Terpsichore follows Euterpe around like a sidekick half the time.”

23 pointed at 40. “And which one popped into Julia’s dreams pretending to be him?”

“Technically, Julia saw _you_ ,” Cassandra replied, stabbing the backspace button several times, “then Euterpe just said she was him.”

23 looked a little stunned. “She still…?”

“Not necessarily,” Calliope cautioned. “It’s who she most needed to inspire her. _Inspiration_ , you understand?”

After a moment, he nodded stiffly, and sat back on his stool.

Calliope laced her fingers together. “The reason why they’re involved – ”

“Don’t care,” Margo dismissed. “Doesn’t matter why, or how we got your attention. You gods and super-beings always do what you want. What it boils down to? They dangled Q in front of Julia’s face and set her up to fall into the same trap he’s in. I’m assuming they’re gonna get in our way if we keep trying to get Q and Julia out. How do we deal with ‘em?”

Calliope pressed her lips into a thin line. “Well, I _was_ going to say, the reason why those three are involved is a mystery. Melpomene doesn’t tend to entangle themself in much of anything these days. They usually like to watch things collapse into ruin from the sidelines. Frankly it’s a little disquieting they’re around at all.” Calliope looked at Cassandra, who only shook their head and kept typing. Then she continued, “But they’re the one who’s always had the strongest connection to…the place where Quentin was sent.”

“Yeah, um, how did that happen?” 40 asked.

“They tampered with the pathway the Library uses to send people onwards,” Cassandra shrugged, rearranging their legs into an awkward angle. “First the elevator, and then the doorway. And they probably made sure you got assigned there. They might’ve even been responsible for slipping you my pages about his death beforehand. Which’s what could’ve led to you telling 23 what to do, Penny, before you were even promoted to Secrets Taken to the Grave. Which means they might have indirectly caused Quentin’s death in the first place.”

A pit settled into Margo’s stomach. It was too much, trying to grasp all these straws. How all these pieces fit. The only time, in her whole life, she’d spent thinking about Muses was whenever “The Gospel Truth” got stuck in her head. And sure, artists talked about muses sometimes. About fifty percent of those Sculpting Major twats she’d met in undergrad called her a muse, mainly whenever they wanted to get their dicks wet for the first time.

But Margo always thought a muse didn’t do any of the work. They just gave someone the idea. It was the person who made the idea real. These beings in front of her were now saying they had a hand in the story. Tampering with a doorway, sending pages that predicted the future, maybe even stealing Q’s book from Alice and breaking Julia’s Siphon on purpose. They had agency, just as much as Margo did. And if their sibling was the one behind taking Q away from them, she needed to know everything. Fast.

She went to ask something, but the Pennys got there first. They spoke at the same time, without realizing it. Their voices were quiet. Almost afraid. And they’d wrapped their arms around themselves in the same way. “So if I hadn’t – ”

Cassandra launched the keyboard away, startling everyone in the room. They whipped their body around and clambered over to the edge of the circle. Margo had genuinely never seen Q move like this; and never wanted to again. For a second, it looked like they were about to rip the blindfold off of their face, but held themselves back at the last second. They gripped the edge of the hardwood floor nearby instead. “No, Penny. No.”

“But – ” 23 said.

“No!” they shouted. “We don’t know, alright? If there is one thing I do know, after all of the millennia I’ve been working out all of the details of every single life, it’s that what happened happened. You _know_ that.” Cassandra jerked their head to 40. “You too.” And then they turned to Margo. “All of you. _Forgive_ yourself.”

A roaring filled Margo’s ears. No. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Those feelings were _not_ coming up right now. As much as she appreciated it, as much as she wanted it so fucking badly, she couldn’t let Cassandra do that. If she was ever, _ever_ going to forgive herself, it would only be after talking with the real Q. And only after he told her he forgave her first.

Quiet slammed into the room. All they could hear was the humming of the electronics on the walls. Calliope cleared her throat, and that seemed to wake Cassandra up to what they’d just done. They released the edge of the circle. After a few awkward, backward shuffles, Cassandra settled themselves back on the mattress and snagged a ballpoint pen out of the air. Out from behind a pillow, they tugged a long scroll of parchment and started writing again.

When the quiet stretched on for too long, Margo took it upon herself to break it again. “So you _all_ have a connection to where Q is?” she asked, the gears in her brain trying to turn.

Calliope went to answer, then hesitated. Cassandra turned their unseeing eyes in Calliope’s direction for a split second, then bent back over their work. “It’s our mother.”

23 snapped himself out of his internal monologue. “That whole place…is your mom?”

Margo, again, was only surprised for about a split second, before she just accepted it and moved on. It wasn’t the strangest origin story she’d heard of, when it came to things birthing other things. If Athena could pop out of Zeus’s forehead, nine muses could pop out of a plane of existence. Live and let live. At least they might have something to call it now besides “holding plane.” Calliope clicked her tongue at Cassandra in annoyance instead of answering. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to share, but Cassandra’d gone ahead with it anyway, apparently.

“Its name is Mnemosyne, isn’t it?” 40 said.

Calliope still hadn’t looked away from Cassandra. “I told one or two of those Greeks about it when I was…young. One scholar came up with the name, told me what it meant, and when I brought it back to everyone else, we all liked it well enough.”

“But any of you can go there?” Margo pressed.

“At the moment, we’re keeping it open so Eliot and Alice can jump back and forth between it and the Library with the Dragon’s Breath. Quentin’s getting close to turning the Siphon back on, so the fountain’ll be useful again soon," Cassandra said.

“And all that stuff about Mnem-mnem…argh,” Margo grunted, “about your _mom_ being able to undo whatever shit the Mirror Realm did to Q, that’s true too?”

The two muses nodded at the same time. “Euterpe wasn’t lying. Mnemosyne is all about memory. The only Time that happens there is what’s come before. Those case studies that Euterpe snuck Julia from the Library, they – ”

“In a roundabout way – ” Cassandra remarked, trying to stem the monologuing before it got started.

Calliope threw her hands up in the air, surrendering the point, “Yes, in a roundabout way, the spell draws on that plane’s power, in order to recontruct a soul back into the person they used to be, right up until they…weren’t. It’s like a co-operative spell, but with a reality instead of a person. It takes a plane to fight a plane, so Mnemosyne is fighting the Mirror Realm’s damage to Quentin’s soul on Julia’s behalf.”

Calliope then launched into this longwinded explanation, most of which went right over Margo’s head. And Penny-23’s too, by the looks of it. Cassandra just sighed, not bothering to try cutting it short again. From what Margo could piece together, the major problem with the Muses’ mom was that shitty memory-loss side effect. Margo decided to think of it like a river: its normal flow swept memories away and did what it liked with them. Brought ‘em to life, even. Julia’s spell was like setting up a water wheel on the river – or in this case, that labyrinth she made – and using that flow to bring Q back. Problem was, the river still kept going. Spend too long there, and a person just becomes another part of the landscape, surrounded by familiar strangers they then make new memories for.

Margo couldn’t just keep sitting around here, listening to semi-answers for questions she didn’t care enough about to come up with, much less ask. She needed to cut through all the bullshit. The whys and the whos were never her strong suit. She was a whats and hows kinda woman. She got up, heading for the Muses in the sunken floor. “That’s great an’ all,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “But you didn’t answer my question earlier. How to we stop ‘em. They didn’t have to fuck everything up, but they did. They could’ve just let Julia’s spell work, and we’d’ve had Q back by now. Eliot and Alice? They’re risking their necks every time they go down there. Unless you got anything I can use, and unless one of you feels like popping back up top and telling them everything yourselves, I’m heading out. I’ll fill them in and then we’ll deal with all this shit without you, like we always have.”

Calliope gazed at Margo with something she might’ve called admiration, if she wanted to inflate her own ego a bit. It was funny, seeing herself look at her like that. It was like those times when she looked in a mirror and actually liked everything she saw. She hadn’t thought about her coronation in a while. How justifiably powerful she felt that day, finally being able to claim that throne as hers. Knowing in her bones how much she’d earned it. How she’d given every ounce of herself for it. How much she’d hurt for it. On that day, all of that’d been recognized by everyone, even her enemies.

Cassandra might look like what she was fighting for, but Calliope looked like how she was going to fight in the first place. It made Margo feel good, plain and simple. Nostalgia at its best. And maybe Calliope knew that, thanks to this stupid Muse power of hers. Honestly, yeah, it was an ego boost to know that whatever magic made the Muses function, she inspired herself. But Margo didn’t feel like she was being manipulated because of it. It wasn’t like these beings had offered her something too-good-to-be-true so far. They weren’t pressing a knife to her back like the Fairy Queen had. They weren’t trying to buy her love like her dad used to. They weren’t kissing ass, like Tick did whenever he was worried she was turning into a bull in a china shop. They were offering info, and might just give them the edge in this clusterfuck of a rescue mission.

Calliope nodded, and went to speak.  

“Don’t,” Cassandra said.

“And what’ll happen if I do?” said Calliope. The words were somehow chastising, mocking, and apologetic all at once.

And could Cassandra even answer, considering her powers? For a nanosecond, Margo wished she didn’t have all this other shit to deal with. She remembered her own words before she came here, about how the Library was using Cassandra. This whole room, on the surface, was probably a writer’s paradise. But living here, working here, sleeping here, forever? Where their only escape was seeing the future they had to write down anyway? This wasn’t living. This was the gilded cage of the Library’s golden goose.

“I love you,” Calliope said softly. She went over and slowly wrapped her arms around her sibling, something Margo never would have done with Q unless the world was gonna end. Was it really that easy, to just take someone in your arms like that? But then again, maybe she should have, before. Q was her family. And family did that for each other. Because they needed that from each other sometimes. And because in this fucked up life, you didn’t know when things like that were gonna be your last.

When this was all over…maybe she’d hug him.

As they drew out of the hug, Calliope said. “The best way to stop them is to cut off their source of information.”

23’s leg bounced up and down in agitation. “Does one of ‘em have future-vision like you do? Any chance they might already know we’re here?”

“No.” She briefly darted her eyes over to Cassandra one more time, but her sibling didn’t move to stop her again. “Cassandra’s the only one of us who can do that. But Melpomene has access to Cassandra's work.”

“They definitely have Q’s book, then. His story’s not over,” Margo said, hope creeping into her voice despite her best efforts.

Calliope pressed her lips into a grim line. “Broaden your scope. Cassandra isn’t just working on one book right now. They’re currently working on 503,117 books per minute.”

Margo blinked. “Well. Shit.”

“And the second one gets finished,” 40 breathed, his eyes widening as the dominoes started to fall in his head, “it goes off to get bound and shelved. Doesn’t matter which branch it goes to, either. They could pop in to either one, get the pages fresh off the processors. Every life touches another life somewhere. It’s easy to fill in the gaps.”

“They could find Julia’s. Or any of ours,” 23 said.

Cassandra piped up, “Or even their own. But you guys can win because books can change.” 40’s eyes got even bigger. Cassandra beat him to it, though. “Exactly, Penny.” They reached the end of the parchment and it promptly popped out of existence. They left the pen hanging in the air, shrugged the Snuggie off of their shoulders, lurched to their feet, and stumbled over to one of the touchscreens. Margo was a little unnerved to see the blue tendrils of magic on their head followed every move they made.

Pinching a part of the blindfold and lifting it by an inch, they pulled up the most complicated version of Microsoft Word Margo’d ever seen, and it definitely wasn’t in any of the languages she knew. Cassandra scrolled through a few dozen pages before they found the section of text they were looking for. “I was so, so glad you got there.” They slid the text onto a tablet, let the blindfold drop again, and snagged the tablet off of the wall. They turned around, and took a jerky half-step forward, but stopped. It was such a Q thing to do, Margo had to bite her cheek ‘til it bruised before she walked over to them.

“What do you need, hun?”

“Mind, um, taking me over to Penny-40? I don’t remember where all the chairs are.”

“You got it.”

She led them across the room, pointedly ignoring glances from the others. The blue magic bent itself around her head the whole time, sending a crawling feeling down her spine. When the two of them got there, Penny-40 shifted on his feet. He couldn’t look at Cassandra’s face for more than a few moments before fixing his eyes at a point just over Margo’s left shoulder.

He really was just as affected by seeing Q as she was. Which one he was seeing now? Was it the last time any of them saw him - Q on the day he died? That was what 40’d sworn on in his office. Guilt could be an inspiration as much as frustration or self-confidence. Or maybe it was some other time, a heroic Q, like when they’d faced The Beast. Or something unexpected, like when the two of them had to collab for The Trials.

Cassandra tapped the tablet. {TO BE DELETED: ~~They were used to affecting people like that. It stung every time; they’d just mastered hiding it.~~ ] “Yesterday, I was rereading what you said today. I was, um, thinking about how I was…gonna write Malala Yousafzai’s life next when I first wrote it, so I was a little distracted. Sorry. But you were right. About there being things I write that don’t make it in.”

“Really?” 40 couldn’t _not_ look at Cassandra then. His face dropped that aloofness. And Margo saw the true Penny again. Wanting to do what’s right so bad he took a sledgehammer to his own walls and let them see some of the holes he’d knocked through.

“Alice found a fake ending once. And then, technically, so did Melpomene. I have this hidden server for other endings, so...”

23 got off the stool and came over. Margo gripped Cassandra’s hand hard. “So what’s the real ending?” she asked.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

They all turned to Calliope. Margo thought she would’ve come charging out of the center of the room like a force of nature. But instead she just sat there. Poised. An anchor. And Margo was the one feeling off kilter.

So. This was what it was like when she drew everyone back down to earth.

“Do you know what you sound like?” Calliope flicked a speck of dust off of her knee. “The Library. Looking for the promise of a future that benefits you. Because you will _know_. That’s the temptation. To know. To possess that answer, like it is a thing that cannot be taken away from you. Do you know what Cassandra’s gift really is? Astronomy. Using mathematics, observing data, to figure out how the entire universe works. They used to help you humans find the answers yourselves. Through searching. Through doing the work. Through making guesses and seeing if they’re true. And that was _always_ only to spur you on, to ask more questions. To discover what more you don’t know.” Calliope bit her lip, her face crumpling a little. “And then they get hit with one curse, and suddenly they have all of the _other_ answers. How people’s souls work. All the choices they have made, can make, will make. All the reasons why they make their choices. The only guaranteed unknowns, and now Cassandra knows every one.” Then Calliope stood in one fluid motion. She took a step forward, looking directly at Penny-40. “So when the Library finds them, they say ‘let’s use this creature we found, so that _we_ will know. And that will make us powerful, superior, conquerors of all questions. And just in case we miss something, we’ll have Secrets Taken to the Grave. We’ll answer those last lingering questions for you poor, unfortunate souls, and you’ll answer a few for us too. We’ll decide what it all means. We’ll decide where to shelve you when we’re finished with your story.’ And not a single, goddamn one of those heartless bastards, for tens of thousands of centuries, said, ‘let’s break this curse for you, Cassandra.’”

40 took a step back, knocked off his axis. His fingers fumbled at his neck, loosening his tie. And Margo’s guilt reared it’s fugly head again. She saw Calliope’s shape flicker. Every time she blinked, the muse looked like someone different. Fen’s wrecked, tear-streaked face in the dungeon of the fairies. Josh, quiet and hurt and avoiding her eyes after he watched Bacchus die. Eventually, Calliope’s body settled back on Margo’s again, only now her face and arms were crusted with dirt. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her lips were cracked and almost bleeding, and her white and tan tunic hung loose on her shoulders. All she was missing was a pair of axes.

Margo gently took the tablet out of Cassandra’s hands, and frisbeed it across the room. It bounced off of one of the screens, making a crack. Cassandra hung their head down, like they’d been caught doing something wrong. A long lock of Q’s hair slipped out from behind the blindfold and brushed along their cheek. Margo took their hand in hers. “Hey. Don’t look like that. You offered ‘cause it’s the only thing you’ve been doing your whole life.”

Cassandra’s hands were shaking.

“And I'm guessing you also offered because there was a chance it might distract us from what I’m about to suggest next. And that scares the fuck out of you.”

Cassandra swallowed, but didn’t say anything. Margo turned her eyes to 23, then to 40, and finally to Calliope. “You said cut off their info. I take it you really meant busting your sibling outta all this?”

Calliope smiled, and nodded.

23 crossed his arms. “Um, didn’t Alice and Kady just start figuring out how to get the Library and the Hedges to coexist? You’re gonna just topple the whole thing an’ light it on fire?”

“Honestly,” Margo said, “I’m more than a little tempted. If the Library wasn’t the Library, a whole galaxy of bad shit wouldn’t have happened. So many people wouldn’t be dead right now. If crashing their system gets us Q back, I don’t give a flying fuck what the costs are. That fucker Everett took Q away from us, and what do they get? Some reorganization? One of us to steer the ship from now on? That never sat right with me anyway. So fine, we’ll let them keep all the fact and fiction books they have. But we’re taking Cassandra’s biographies away from ‘em. Which means the Muses will be flying blind like the rest of us.”

23, ever the devil’s advocate, started spouting off a bunch of what-ifs, like whether the Underworld would get messed up in the process, and what they were gonna have to do with all the books that’d already been written. Margo wasn’t about to be swayed, but before she could start telling him off, something caught her eye. Penny-40 was looking down at the ground, his eyes a million miles away. Cassandra hesitantly raised their hand, and rested it on his shoulder. 40 closed his eyes in relief, and a watery smile played across his mouth. He reached up and patted Cassandra’s hand. When they removed it, he went to take his tie off completely, and tossed it on a nearby desk. His gray blazer joined it a second later. He raised his head, and caught Margo’s eyes.

She nodded at him. If they had 40 on board, then this was gonna work.

Time to start planning, then.

 

END OF EXCERPT

PAGES TO BE SENT TO THE OFFICE OF [REDACTED] FOR EDITING PRIOR TO BINDING

EDITING DEADLINE  11: 59. 59 XX/XX/XXX 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to know, the muses are in charge of: 
> 
> Calliope = Epic Poetry  
> Euterpe = Lyrical Poetry/Music  
> Terpsichore = Dance  
> Erato = Love Poetry  
> Melpomene = Tragedy  
> Thalia = Comedy  
> Clio = History  
> Polyhymnia = Sacred Poetry  
> Ourania = Astronomy
> 
> In Greek mythology, Mnemosyne is a Titan and the goddess of memory. In case it rings a bell, she's where we get the word "mnemonic" from. Also in my work, I consider the muses to have various gender identities. Some identify as feminine, some masculine, and some like Cassandra/Ourania and Melpomene identify as being outside the gender binary, hence the use of "they/them" pronouns. Margo initially uses the wrong pronouns for Cassandra because she doesn't know better, and the narration reflects that briefly. Once it becomes clear they are not Quentin/Old!Alice, the correct pronouns are used as Cassandra resumes their third-person omniscient narration.


	17. The Warning, Unheeded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically there're slight spoilers for the end of the first Magicians book in this chapter, but it's nothing the show hasn't already covered. Be advised, this chapter does contain a Reference To Childhood Sexual Abuse, when characters discuss Martin Chatwin's backstory.
> 
> Sorry for the ridiculously long stretch of time between posting chapters. December saw me writing another thing - for peacefrog's The Magicians Monthly Prompt challenge, which you can find in my works if you're interested. I posted it to the collection, so you can read the others and participate and share the fic writing love if you want. But I was very good this month and did NOT end up doing the "Monster" prompt, 'cause this chapter has enough of that. 
> 
> And because nothing says repressing and avoiding your own grief like writing a ton of angst and dropping it on here like a ton of bricks. Besides some heavy stuff going on right now in my life, I'll admit I have been watching season 5, and 5x03 just aired last night. Honestly, this chapter WAS already written before I watched, but as I was editing it this morning...well, I saw a few unintentional similarities. 
> 
> Not that anyone needs my take, but if it helps you, I'll offer this: sometimes it's just easier for me to think of season 5 as one long, overfunded angst AU. Some ideas I'm okay with exploring, others not so much. The real canon is in everyone's fics. Not necessarily this one; it's as AU as they get. But you know. Death of the Author/showrunners, and all that. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through this. Take care of yourselves, loves. This story's not over.

He wanted to sneak one more look back, one last glance at Eliot, but he’d already turned the corner. Hazy pockets of warmth from their hug still clung to his chest. The last hints of his musky aftershave were starting to fade from his nose.

Was it kinda unfair that he resented the Binder just a…a bit. A smidge. A hair. For not saying Eliot would be going with him too? Yup, probably really unfair. And petty.

But come on. It was almost like their moments together were stolen. From Time or bullshit Destiny or whatever cosmic author wrote their story. The conversations they weren’t allowed to have with each other? Could fill a whole book. A whole book series. A whole book _shelf_. They couldn’t share anything, beyond only the promise of what was _supposed_ to be, the suggestion of how things _used_ to be, the hope of what _could_ be.

Quentin almost tacked who _he_ was supposed to be onto that list. But Eliot’s soft reminder, that he wasn’t incomplete, stopped the thought, just like it was supposed to.

And Quentin let himself believe it. Really take it in. Just for one illegal minute.

Maybe he was like…the mosaic, down in the labyrinth. His pieces were scattered all over the place. He had no idea what the puzzle was supposed to look like. But all the tiles were still there, waiting to be put in their proper place, to make a complete picture.

Although the problem with the mosaic was that there were so so so so so soooooo many combinations, and it’d already been solved, and–

Um. How about a different metaphor. Or simile, or whatever.

Maybe he was like a deck of cards, dealt out to a few different players. All the cards were _definitely_ there, otherwise they wouldn’t be playing, right? And…a few other players just…had the cards he needed to win, that’s all. Okay. Yeah. That was good. He was a deck of cards. And they were playing…Egyptian Ratscrew. Or Slap Jack, or War, or whatever game you won by having whole deck by the end.

Yeah.

It was a stupid idea, but he really liked it. He tucked it in the back of his head, to give himself a little kick of hope. Just like Eliot did, by being…Eliot. Whoever he was to him –

( _He didn’t dare put a name to it. That’d be too much, if he placed his faith on any one label, and then his hopes got wrecked by the truth. It’d be too much._ )

in spite of all the messy things they’d said and, um, tried to do, since they’d met. Or, well, reunited. It didn’t matter one way or the other; Eliot just…felt that way, automatically. He felt like, like, like if Quentin looked up a bunch of praiseworthy adjectives in a dictionary, Eliot’d be used in the example sentences for all of them. It was one of the millions of reasons why Quentin was so fucking _drawn_ to him. Another card in the deck, one that he…if he was being honest… _really_ wanted to get back more than all the others.

And the total lack of sleep he’d been getting was...probably messing with his brain at this point, if _those_ were the thoughts running through it right now. He drew himself out of his head. He’d slowed down as the thoughts ran over him. So he blinked, refocused, and sped up again, recovering the distance between himself and the small shape of Alice at the end of the passage.

The corridor’s windowless walls and high ceiling echoed with the patting of his feet. There wasn’t much in the way of decoration to eat up the noise. It was all bare sandstone, lit up by bright lanterns and small fires inside metal braziers. Unlike the labyrinth, he couldn’t see any mortar holding this place together. The tunnel was meticulously shaped. No sharp edges, every block cut to exact dimensions. Each one sat secure amongst its neighbors, as it if set by machine. Or, he realized sheepishly, by magic. And that was probably what kept the chill from the air too.

Things already seemed different with this task than they had with the first. True, he was just as exhausted as…yesterday? ( _Damn, it was yesterday, wasn’t it._ ) Thanks to his…( _not?)_ mother’s pregnancy scare putting his head, and heart, through the ringer. The Binder’s instructions this time were just as vague as before. And he was facing something that ‘appeared’ human, but wasn’t. Which could mean another god, in disguise, or a monster. He tried to shove all the guesses of what he'd be running into out of his mind. And pointedly ignored those illustrations of…of the Watcherwoman, or a _draugr,_ or a _teke teke_ , which his memory was oh so helpfully trying to offer.

Alice didn’t look worried, though. She fluttered patiently several yards ahead, waiting for him. And hey, he wasn’t miserably crawling through filth right now. There’d been no mention of having to defeat, or outwit, or whatever, the thing that lived here. He just had to get in, and get out, right? And afterwards he’d be another step closer to being himself, to helping everyone, to going home with his real family.

Best of all, he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know much about Alice – hadn’t really gotten much of a chance to ask her anything, lately – but he knew enough. She’d done everything she could when his broken brain was coming after him. She always tried to explain things enough, so he’d understand them. She was really, _really_ talented at magic. She tried to solve any and every problem she could, without any selfish reasons behind it. Her being here now really was comforting, all bitterness about the Binder aside.

He started to tell her how glad he was of the company, but she waved her hands, putting a finger to her lips. He clamped his jaw shut, nodding. But he tried to convey his thanks anyway, through a wide smile. She blinked a few times, and then returned it with a small one of her own. Pushing up her glasses, she beckoned him around another corner.

At the end of the next passage, there were more braziers, each lit with more cheery fire. An ornately carved arch, laced with stone vines and daisies, interrupted the far side of the left wall. Alice flew through it. When Quentin followed, he stumbled to a halt, his breath stolen away.

They stood on one side of a glorious throne room. Half a dozen pillars, thicker than redwoods, hollowed out with diamond-shaped holes, bookended a grand dais in the middle. Everything was bathed in rays of beautiful sunlight pouring in from a wide balcony, brighter than anything Quentin had seen in days. The air was a little heady, but crisp. The very act of breathing had the same effect as downing half a glass of good wine. Chaises, carpets, coffee tables, lounge chairs, couches, and all sorts of other comfortable furniture were sequestered off to the right under metal awnings, with bold-colored fabrics, tule curtains, and pillows strewn all over. The floor was covered with intricate, chess-like marble tiles, and several wide steps in the center led up to…what _used_ to be…four humble thrones.

Three of the four chairs were knocked to the ground, cast off to one side, some with legs missing, others with chunks torn from their limbs. One even had scorch marks peppered across its back, like it’d been used for target practice. The only throne left standing had a single cushion on its orange seat. On it lay a circlet of stones.

Quentin ran up the steps, gawking at every little thing, desperate for some way – _any_ way – to capture it all. He wasn’t an artist; making some kind of sketch later wasn’t gonna happen. Taking a photograph was out too. He’d just have to remember every single tiny detail. Crap, _why_ had he left his books back on his bed? He knew the _exact pages_ he could open up to, to cross reference all this. Because he’d bet all his first editions that he was standing in front of the very throne he’d dreamed of sitting on since he was five.

 _Whitespire! WHITESPIRE_!

And the _crown_. He _knew_ it would look like that. He just knew. The thin, reflective obsidian, jutting up from the wooden band. Pockmarked here and there with…well, he didn’t know what kind of rocks those were. He’d never picked up a geology book in his life. But some were red, like the pure shade he’d get only from coloring with wax crayons. Others were a marigold-y, amber-like, tangerine yellow, in between the obsidian. They all perfectly suggested this was a humble crown. But an unbending one, too. One that didn’t have the _time_ for gold or silver.

A tiny, secret thought…about trying it on…crept into his mind.

The crown wasn’t his, was it? Eliot’d said he was a king, but The Binder hadn’t said anything about travelling between worlds. Not like Eliot and Alice had that first night. They’d said they’d take him back to Fillory, but only once he was fixe– no.

Remember what Eliot said. He didn’t need to be fixed.

Once he was…all together again.

He’d worked it out with Ember before, remember. He couldn’t be in Fillory. So…maybe the throne room was a memory? Recreated, somehow? Alice had recharged this part, they’d said. She’d know.

He turned to glance back at her. She hadn’t moved beyond outer wall of the room. She was subconsciously picking at her nails. When she noticed his confused stare, she jerked her hands apart and held them behind her back.

Right. Hands. “No taking anything.” Except for whatever one of the golden keys would open. That was the big rule. Any ideas about trying that crown on, no matter whether it _was_ his, had no place here.

He moved around the throne, fixing his eyes on the horizon beyond the grand balcony. What would he be able to see from there? The Eastern Sea? Maybe even The Silver Banks? Or were they on the other side of the castle? Could he gaze down into the courtyard, or its gardens? See the vast castle walls, or the moat, or the sweeping forests beyond them, or the peaks of The Nameless Mountains. And there’d be dryads down there. And griffins soaring in the open air nearby.

Wait a sec. Did…looking out the window count as taking something? Like, was seeing the real ( _or memory-version of?_ ) Fillory something he wasn’t supposed to see? What did “taking” mean, exactly? How was he supposed to know what counted and what didn’t? He hadn’t planned on having to guess stuff like this.

He heard Alice’s wings flutter again, starting from the left and then growing louder on the right. She’d flown to the other side, waiting by a…turn-of-the-century style door? Huh. There _was_ a good chance he was just…massively overthinking things, apparently. And if the crown, or anything else in here, was a temptation, then he could resist them, right? He just had to follow Alice’s lead. That’s it. His eyes flicked over to the throne and its battered siblings a few more times, then he hopped off of the dais, crossing over to the door.

It was jarringly out of place, with its dull brass doorknob and heavily polished grooves. The kind he’d expect to see in big, old country estates. More modern than the ones in the lodge he was living in now, but definitely not the kind you’d see inside an ancient castle, where doors were mostly just slats of wood connected by metal and a handle. The top panel even had a pane of sturdy green, red, and clear stained glass embedded in it, for decoration.

Alice, on the other hand, wasn’t looking at the door. She was smiling at him again. This time, the expression stayed on her face, unlike the fleeting ones she usually tried to hide. It was a smile that’d started as tolerant, but gained momentum the longer she seemed to let herself feel it. There was still some sadness, like a lot of the others. But there was an equal amount of…joy-sharing? Was that even a word? Co-rejoicing? He had no idea. He wanted to laugh at himself. Like she probably did, judging by how wide her grin was growing. ‘Cause he knew how he looked, when his love for Fillory burst out of him like this. But he still wanted to whoop for joy just as much. He was literally in the castle of his dreams! And he wanted to outright cheer, out of gratitude, that he had someone to share this gift with in the first place.

Maybe she saw all that, understood it a little, or even shared it.

He turned back to the throne room. He couldn’t enjoy it now ( _Or rather, enjoy it more than he already was. Since his brain was, like, singing with endorphins right now._ ) but he would again. Someday. Once this was all finished, and after the final task, he’d get to see it again. With Eliot. And Alice. And Julia, apparently, and all the other people Eliot kept mentioning.

He’d make sure to fix the thrones too. They deserved to be mended, not abused and abandoned like that.

He pulled the pouch of keys out of his pocket. No keyhole offered itself at the moment, but then, the clock hadn’t either, until he’d been physically touching the right one. After five slightly embarrassing tries, he closed his fingers around a key with two rings in its center. A very faint, quick, high-pitched hum filled his ears, and a keyhole popped into existence the next time he blinked. When the door opened, he saw a wide, well-furnished hallway. It was lit with electric lamps, and outfitted with more doors on one wall.

As he stepped through theirs, with Alice fluttering along behind, it didn’t vanish, remaining open to let the shining light from Fillory spill in. The air was damper here, and musty, thanks to the thick carpets, and the long French windows on the left. These showed a bleak evening sky outside. A large staircase on the right hinted at two other stories in the building, one above and one below.

On the oaken walls hung Romantic landscapes and a couple of mirrors in sturdy, gilded frames. Beneath these sat long writing tables laid with lace doilies, candelabras, books, vases, and tons of other decorative stuff. Like a person could grab them at any time, take them over to a window seat, and examine them for as long as they liked. These were things you’d use to fill up a house, when you knew it was yours.

Things…he might’ve wanted to fill his own home with, once. Knick knacks and antiques, like his dad used to sell, and fossils and pipes and geodes and fountain pens and sheets of blank paper. Everything around him said this was the home of an intellectual, who remembered what was important. Who read everything, and wrote about anything, they pleased.

“Come on, Martin!”

A girl’s voice, British, scolding but bouncing with energy, flitted through the stairwell from the floor above. Quentin started at the sound, tripping on a gap in the carpets. He’d never gone to England in his life. Maybe that memory theory of his was right after all. And this place, this time, was something from his lost past.

“Jaaaane. Jane! Hold up, would you?” A boy’s voice now. Throwing off the embarrassments of puberty. Trying to make sure his voice didn’t crack.

Jane? Martin?

 _No_.

That meant –

 _Nooo_.

His eyes grew so wide, his eyelids actually strained to keep up. Because, now that he’d seen that Fillory was real, then…

Before he could turn to Alice, because, still, _no fucking way_ , she was launching herself past his shoulder and down to the end of the hall, must faster than before. He started after her.

“Jane, wait! Wait for me! I’m coming with you.”

“Rupe always kept up,” she teased, “why can’t you?”

Footsteps thundered above his head.

He.

He.

He.

 _Had_ to go see! It _had_ to be the Chatwins! His legs jerked beneath him as he scrambled towards the stairs.

A door above slammed shut. Jane wasn’t waiting. Quentin had his hands on the banister, stopping for a second. He heard the door open again.

“No. Please. Please let me through,” the boy pleaded.

Silence.

Right. The later days. When Fillory stopped letting Martin in.

Quentin started up the first step.

“Ember, Umber, please! Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

A new voice called up from the ground floor, one belonging to a much older man. “Martin?”

There was no answer. After a moment, Martin’s voice came from the upper story again. Much quieter. Truly begging. Fearful. “No, no, please, please. Please let me in. Please.”

Quentin nearly peered his head down the stairwell, giddiness swelling in his chest. The man certainly couldn’t be the Chatwins’ father, or Rupert. Not with how old Jane’s voice sounded. Not with the war on. There was only one explanation.

Would Plover – Christopher motherfucking _Plover!_ – look like his picture on the book jacket?! Or maybe older? Younger?

“Martin?” Plover called again. “Everything alright up there?”

“Please. Pleeeease. Don’t leave me here.” The boy’s voice was just above a desperate whisper. “I can’t stay here. I can’t. Not with him, please. Please. Pleeeease.”

Quentin leaned back, away from the landing, and peered up at the small glimpse he had of the upper floor. Why was Martin so scared? Someone should check on him. Make sure, whatever trouble he was in, it’d turn out okay. He went up another stair. But a sharp tug on his hair yanked his head back. Turning around a little, Alice hovered behind him, pressing her lips together and shaking her head.

Oh.

But.

Seeing the look on his face, Alice shook her head again. Without waiting for him, without room for any argument, she flew around the corner to the end of the hallway.

But. But this wasn’t “taking” anything. How could it be? How could he disobey the one big rule, if it didn’t even apply here? How could giving someone – a _kid_ , no less – just a little help...be the wrong choice?

Unless either of the voices was…the monster? Or both, if it could throw its voice. Or traverse through the walls. The color drained from his cheeks, and he loosened his grip on the banister, letting his hand fall to his side. The voices, all three of them, were so real. SO convincing. The little things they’d said. How could it’ve known the perfect thing to trick him? Suddenly, every move he made was suspect. He didn’t want it to hear him. Didn’t want it to see him. It was like the fear tormenting Martin instantly became his.

His muscles were starting to burn, frozen in place as he was. Inching one leg, then the other, off of the stairs and back to the second floor, he crept back down the hall. He only allowed himself short, silent breaths every five steps or so.

“Martin?” Plover called again.

Quentin was too far away to hear if the boy tried to say, or do, anything else. Damnit, he still wanted to help him. He knew, after looking after all the Shades back in the city, that if a kid was completely terrified like that, it was for a very good reason, and you believed them. Period.

But if the voice was the monster, or part of the test…Now he couldn’t trust his better impulses either? He just had to follow? To obey? To survive?

Alice stopped outside another door. It was more for a closet than a bedroom or study. He still had the pouch clenched in his left hand. But the risk of taking them all out, making any more noise than necessary, wasn’t worth it. He jammed a finger inside the synched opening. The key, or the door, whichever, seemed satisfied with that.

The third, the one with the triangle, let them into a crevice of darkness, with dusky blue light coming from a wide crack a few feet away. Hesitating wasn’t really an option, so he plunged ahead. His shoulders and head hit something almost instantly. He couldn’t help but grunt as sharp corners and splinters dug into his skin. He ducked, wiggled his hands along in the dark like feelers, until he found the way forward towards the opening. Roots snagged his bare toes as he emerged, making him trip again and almost fall flat on his face, into a bank of dying leaves.

They were on the edges of a forest. A gloomy, lifeless one. Full of this… _feeling_. Of being in a fog that never lifts. And full of ticking. The crevice he’d crawled out of was nestled within a hollow clock tree. Not as big, nor as tall, as the one he’d crawled into when facing Ember. It housed two clocks instead of one, and it looked younger, more alive. Although admittedly, not by much. Its bark was soaked through, like a week-long rainstorm had finally ceased its downpour seconds ago. Every tree around them, as a matter of fact, looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in a few years. Leafless. Peppered with moss, lichen, and strung up with limp parasitic vines.

A weight settled on his right shoulder, four little pressure points. Alice had landed on him, checking to see if he was all right. He nodded. But their proximity to the hallway of Plover’s house was still…proximate. The crevice still glimmered with the light from the lamps. Gripping the remaining keys tight in his hand, his feet slipped on leaves and wet pebbles as he scrambled away.

Alice held onto the fabric of his shirt as he stood and righted himself. She settled to sit down on the bony part of his shoulder. That small weight grounded him, calmed his heart. One deep breath. Two. Three.

He was breathing Fillory’s air again, he realized. It was much, much weaker. Relaxing, but not a sedative. The woods were completely silent besides the soft ticking. So much that his ears rang with it. The talking animals, and the nonverbal ones too, had either hid themselves well, or abandoned this place for somewhere safer. Even the insects he’d expect to hear in the evening were gone. Something had happened to Fillory. Either before, or after, that time in the throne room.

“Where now?” he whispered to Alice.

Her eyebrows drew together in concern.

“What, I still can’t talk?”

She oscillated her head back and forth. A nod was out, but apparently shaking her head wasn’t quite right either.

“Sorry, I…It’s so quiet. I just – it’s easier.” He pushed his bangs behind his ears, letting his volume grow to just above a murmur. “I should’ve brought my books with me. You could, you know, highlight the words again, and I could point at them and stuff, to keep quiet. You deserve the chance to, like, actually talk to me. Instead of just…this. Sorry.”

She made some chittering noises, and put her little hand near his collar, patting it once. Well, he could understand enough of all that, at least. He put his pointer finger over her hand, returning the gesture.

If only there was something else he could do for her. It couldn’t be easy, keeping track of his every move. Stressing out about every new place she had to lead him through. Making sure he didn’t stray too far. And having to reassure him all the time, on top of all that.

If nothing else, he at least had to make sure this worked. He had to succeed. Had to make sure all the trouble she was taking was worth it.

He sighed through his nose, nodding. “Onward?” he asked. She pointed to a break in the tree line. The light of dusk was stronger there. He started forward, letting his hand drop so he could keep his balance on the uneven ground.

The closer he got to the edge of the forest, the more rocks and boulders started to crop up. Eventually it became a matter of weaving through them, all while his bare feet sometimes kicked, and accidentally stepped on, loose pieces of gravel. Until he realized he wasn’t walking around mere boulders. He was walking through something worse. That thick pole in the ground wasn’t an old sign post marking the miles, destroyed long ago. There was a name on it, and hearts had been carved above and below the letters. Then he turned and found a larger, thinner slab of rock, sheared in two. Both halves were unmarked, but roaring, rampant bears had been carved on top, and stone flowers dotted their edges. And there were so many more flat, upright monoliths, all over the woods, that he couldn’t deny it any longer. He was walking past dozens of graves. Humans, and probably animals and mythical creatures too. Laid to rest, by whoever took the time to bury them in the first place.

He could still feel Alice’s hands on his shoulder, bunching up the fabric of his shirt to keep herself steady. If she was affected by what they’d found, she wasn’t gripping hard enough to show it. When she saw his face, she turned and took another glance at their surroundings. She met his eyes after, and pointed ahead again, not breaking eye contact.

This wasn’t what they’d came here for, her eyes said. Just another part of the landscape. But her stare also said she knew it was hard, and knew they had to press on in spite of that. He breathed, gathering his courage, and did as he was told.

Emerging from the trees, he found a wide dirt road, empty and stretching for miles in either direction. Just as abandoned as the graves. There were grooves from wagon wheels and horseshoe prints – impressions made weeks, maybe even months, ago. The road was dry, despite the soaked trees. And apparently it wasn’t dusk, just a very cloudy day. Behind the road were the remnants of a bog or a marsh. A few puddles speckled the earth, but the wetlands had dried up, as if drained by some greedy giant. Some skeletal trees were still trying to carve a living out of the soil.

Why was Fillory so empty? So lifeless? His chest ached at the sight. There had to be something he could do. This haunting landscape was _wrong_. The land and its people was hurting; he could practically feel it in his blood.

Alice indicated a tomb, grander than any of the other markers. He double-checked with her, and she nodded. Swallowing, he made himself cross the road.

MARTIN CHATWIN, HIGH KING OF FILLORY, was etched into its face.

“No.”

The stone of the tomb had been fashioned several decades ago. That didn’t make the hurt of seeing it any easier to bear. Its size wasn’t that of a man’s, but a teenager’s.

Martin had found his way back one day. All of his begging had maybe paid off at some point. But he hadn’t gotten the chance to grow much older after that. How much time had he been able to spend here? To escape whatever made him so afraid. To rejoin his sister, and rejoice at the freedom Fillory gave him from war and loneliness. A year? Two? Before this became his final resting place?

Quentin couldn’t help it. He sank into a crouch, finding it hard to breathe. _Were_ all these places memories? Because if he had once travelled to the past somehow, or seen it, and not been able to do anything to stop this…Had Alice just made him relive the day he’d saved his own neck, instead of helping a boy who then went on to die, before he’d gotten a chance to live?

And what’d happened to Fillory? A war? A curse? A plague? What’d caused it to whither like this? Like its very lifeforce was being sucked dry.

And why was Alice looking at him like she was _confused_?

“Is this. Is this my fault?” he gasped, his eyes prickling.

She blinked, jerked back a little, and shook her head several times.

“But he was so young. Look at it. It’s so small, and Fillory’s – ”

Alice waving her hands in his face, in a “whoa, whoa, whoa, stop” kind of way, kept Quentin from saying anything more. But it also didn’t convince him.

She eyed the letters of the inscription. With a few motions of her hand, one by one, the letters “N,” “O,” “T,” “H,” “I,” “M,” glowed with her magic. She even lit up the “v” within the letter “M”, and then made a vertical line above it, so it made an arrow pointing downwards.

Relief hit him instantly, like downing a fresh cup of hot chocolate after a blizzard. “He…he’s okay? He’s alive?”

Her jaw snapped shut, and her head whipped forward. Her eyes darted in a few different directions. Minutes passed, and she didn’t communicate anything else. And then he felt the strings of the pouch twitch up as she used magic to draw his attention back to it.

“God, sorry, right.” He wiped his hands over his eyes, trying to get himself back together. “Can’t tell me anything. And I can’t take anything ‘cept the special thing. Got it,” he reiterated.

 _Can’t question anything either,_ a small part of him thought. A spark of that resentment at the Binder flared up again, and he smothered it. It was just his frustration at himself coming out. He was just projecting.

But it was really hard to take _all this_ at face value. Because the messed-up shit he’d had to deal with when he’d killed Ember? That had been _all about_ not trusting what some higher power told him. The first task had been about looking deeper, finding the truth behind the god’s deception, finding the right thing to do, finding a steady resolve within himself. Understanding that he could do better. Could be better. For the sake of his friends. For the sake of Fillory. And even before that, back in the city. Not knowing all the facts hadn’t ever stopped him from trying to save people, to make things right.

Except for when he faced Reynard. Or his mother’s opinions on his unsteady, broken mind. Then, he just cowered.

He yanked open the pouch as that snide thought hit him, jangling the remaining keys inside and making Alice wobble on his shoulder. No. He was getting better. He wasn’t gonna be that person anymore. He wasn’t!

The fourth key, the one with horseshoe shapes, startled him when he slid it into the proffered lock. The whole stone monument began to drag itself to the left, making him press his teeth together. The sound of stone grinding against itself was harsh on his ears. Instead of densely packed dirt, a set of stone stairs had been dug into the ground beneath the ( _empty?_ ) box. At the bottom was…another outdoor place? Whoever had designed Martin’s grave, this portal, or whatever, was what they’d been trying to hide. He trotted down the steps, and found a clearing on the other side. More dead leaves covered the ground, and more grey light filtered through the bare branches of the forest. There were huge rocks here too, actual boulders and not graves. The air quality was even the same. Had he only travelled to another part of the countryside? Had any time passed, forwards or backwards? He turned around, and saw the stairs suspended in midair, leading back up.

Wherever and whenever he was, at least he knew he had a clear path back to the attic. Back to Eliot, waiting for him at the end.

It was brighter here, now that he really took more time to look around. Shining lights peeked through gaps in the thinner trees, almost as if Fillory had extra suns hanging in the sky in the distance. The clearing was only about the size of a pond, or the center of the labyrinth, only, without the gaping hole in the middle. Someone had built a shack on the far side. Mmm, alright, calling it a shack was being pretty generous. He had this funny echo in the back of his head. It _was_ more of a truckstop shit-house, wasn’t it. Someone’d said that. Somewhere. He’d remember later.

But it was the only landmark around. Central, drawing the eye, and kinda glaringly obvious, in its shabby plainness. And it did have a door. And Alice wasn’t leading him anywhere else. As he walked closer, the loose earth and leaves cushioning the ground beneath his toes, he couldn’t help but wonder why the next destination wss so close. Nothing else shocked or distracted him away from going forward. Then again, his supply of keys was starting to run low. Quentin was a bit overdue on running into this human-looking creature thing. He wasn’t saying everything so far had been a little too easy; it hadn’t, and he was still trying to mentally wrestle with certain parts. But less keys meant less rooms and/or memories between him and the final showdown. The ease, or succinctness, of this place might be the whole point.

Alice’s wings were buzzing and twitching. He could see her trying to keep them still, but slight jerks still escaped her control. Her knuckles were white as her fists clenched. As he passed the final boulder, with the unassuming building only yards away, she turned her head to stare at an empty stretch of land nearby. He stopped, readying himself.

Not a breeze stirred. Not a bird chirped, nor did an insect hum. No leaves crunched, no twigs snapped.

They stood there for a long time. So long that Alice even shook herself out of it, and turned back to the door, expecting him to continue. But Quentin kept staring at the place that’d drawn her eye. He blinked. His mind was telling him there was…supposed to be a…charred circle in the leaves there.

 _And he’d been on the ground._ No, he hadn’t. _He’d been on his back, craning his neck, leaves under his fingers._ No, he’d never been here before. _His shoulder scorching and boiling in pain, bleeding out and only half connected to his body, his heart thundering against his ribcage, getting weaker._ Nothing had happened here. The ground was pristine, undisturbed for years. _Barely clinging to consciousness but not daring to pass out because –_

His breath stuttered out of him, along with a small cry.

_Crawling forward. Sobbing. Arms pulling him, cradling him. “Q, you have to stop. You have to stop.”_

See. Nothing had happened here. Nothing. The lights were still shining through the trees. The leaves lay where they’d fallen. No one was around. No one had been here in a long time.

Alice slipped off of his shoulder and went to hover in front of him. He put a hand to his face. Air. He needed air.

Brains thought about doing things a person wouldn’t normally do all the time. Jumping in front of trains. Stabbing someone. Robbing a bank. Almost dying in an otherwise calm place.

But he couldn’t not ask.

“Have, have we been going through my memories?”

She shook her head. Not too quickly. Not hesitating for just a split second too long. Just long enough that he actually believed her.

“Then what is all this?” he whispered.

For once, Alice looked like she didn’t know what to say. She glanced all around, and then up at the sky, through canopy of bare branches, as if the answer was written up there. Tilting her head, she stared at them a bit longer. With a flick of her fingers, she snapped a bough off, and dropped the stick close to the ground, catching it with magic at the last second. Clearing a swath of leaves away, she scrawled two words in the dirt.

_A STORY_

His fear made him scoff at her, and then he regretted it immediately. “Sorry. I’m. It’s not you,” he said. “I just. I’m having a hard time. Wrapping my head around all this. I know there’s a rhyme and a reason behind it. I’m just missing it.”

Before Alice got the chance to respond, he was already brushing past her. He stepped over the words in the ground, fumbling for the fifth key and taking deep breaths. It was fine. It _was_ fine. He was being stupid, childish, and his brain was breaking a little. Answers aren’t given to a quester on a silver platter, he reminded himself. A quester has to learn what they mean. He has to appreciate–

More rustling, scraping sounds. From behind. Alice was rewriting something in the dirt. He went back over, and saw:

_HIS STORY_

And an arrow pointing at the outhouse.

 _Well_ , his mind supplied hysterically, _at least that ruled out the Watcher_ woman _._

Fuck. Was the creature _in there_? Or was there another room beyond; a new place just delaying the inevitable? The keyhole was waiting for him. He wasn’t ready.

Why the fuck did he need to know the monster’s story? He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to face this thing. The Binder’d said this task was much more dangerous. But so far, he’d been silent and obedient as he’d walked through a few empty sections of a fantasy land, and the house of his favorite writer.

And FUUUUCK, why was he already walking over and standing in front of the door?!

If these places weren’t his memories, then all the questions of how he’d wound up stuck here, trapped here, helpless and weak and in need of rescue, all stayed a mystery. If they weren’t his, why’d he just have that all-consuming flash of horror? Why in this place, and not the others?

Shit. Hewasn’treadyhewasn’treadyhewasn’thewasn’thecouldn’t it was all connected somehow but he couldn’t see it hadn’t been given the time or enough info to piece anything together he was gonna fail, fail so bad –

But he was already putting the fifth key in the lock.

There was something he _did_ know. Not from the memories he’d lost. From when Eliot had been holding him. After Quentin’d fainted in front of the clock tree. Eliot’s arms had been a steady cage, keeping him from flying apart.

… _spoiler…dear Q, it’s not something you haven’t done before_.

He breathed deep. The entrance swung open, and he stepped into a study.

He’d seen pictures of this place; in the biographies he’d read and reread and reread again. Beautiful, grand bookshelves, as tall as the ceiling and filled – to the brim and then some – with hardbound volumes on every wall. An instantly recognizable, wide mahogany desk, with a typewriter and white-out and a lamp and stacks of paper held by paperweights. The desk that’d saved his life.

Plover’s writing room.

But he didn’t bolt inside and gaze at everything in awe, like he’d done in Whitespire. Never, in any of the pictures he’d seen, had a man been sitting…almost meditating, really, in the center of the floor, with two white marbles and an intricate, circular puzzle embedded the ground before his crossed legs.

Quentin didn’t make a sound. He almost put a hand to his nose to pinch it shut, in case that was too loud.

The man was dressed in a granite grey three-piece suit, pressed clean. Almost the same color as the salt-and-pepper of his hair, beard, and mustache, each groomed with poise and precision, like he was fresh from the barber’s. He could’ve been a university professor, or an archivist researcher. His eyes were closed. They didn’t move beneath the lids. He breathed evenly, as if he was in a deep, dreamless sleep. He hadn’t heard Quentin come in.

And he wasn’t Christopher Plover. His face was rounder and paler, with less wrinkles tracing their way through. He had broader shoulders. No spectacles. And his hands, which rested tranquilly on his knees, had more callouses. They lacked the tell-tale yellowing stains from packing tobacco into a pipe. Wait. Two, four, six. He had six fingers.

Alice flew around Quentin and into the room, beckoning him inside. His eyebrows drew together, and he pointed frantically at the man on the ground. Of all the fucking things, he didn’t expect her to shake her head, wave him in again with one hand, and give him a fucking thumbs up with the other.

He took a step. The floor creaked. Quentin flinched, but the man didn’t move. His chest still rose and fell in an even, peaceful rhythm. A few more steps into the room didn’t change anything.

Further in, as he dared to relax, Quentin’s eyes kept wandering to the desk. He stared the half-finished page nestled into the typewriter.

 _“His” story_ , Alice had written. Well, the story consisted of: Fillory’s single-chaired throne room, Plover’s house, Martin’s grave, a Fillorian clearing, and the writing room. They were all meant to explain the man, somehow. If he was a man at all. Although, just having six fingers alone didn’t make a person inhuman.

But. What might make him inhuman were those…eyes. Not marbles. Eyes. Someone’s eyes were on the ground. And they had a curved line of smeared, wet blood drawn in front of them. Like a smile, fingerpainted.

Quentin swallowed, nausea roiling in his gut.

Alice swooped down, disappearing behind the desk. If…if she wasn’t worried, then. Then he was probably safe. Yes. If she wasn’t worried, then he _was_ safe. The man, the _being_ , was possibly under some kind of spell, which kept him from rousing.

Quentiun went around the other way, just in case. Pushing the chair into the desk and crossing behind it, he found Alice standing in front of a panel at the bottom of one of the bookshelves in the corner. She indicated he should slide it to the left. He shot a quick look at the man again, and then pressed his fingers into the wood. The panel opened to reveal a stout green safe. So. Either he was going to have to scour the desk, and potentially every single book on every single shelf, for a combination. Or he had a couple of magic keys in his hand.

The second to last key hummed in his ears when he drew it out, and another keyhole arrived right away. Each key had, so far, led him to a new place. Hopefully, this wasn’t going to be some Wonderland thing, where he’d have to shrink down to get through. But the safe only contained a lot of old papers, a newer-looking notebook, and a long wooden box. Which did the Binder want him to take? The former two were less bulky, so he grabbed those first. A dismissive wave from Alice was enough of an answer.

Except the writing on the front of the notebook caught his eye. Honestly, his eye should have been caught sooner, since it was a mass-produced composition notebook, not some leather-bound journal. But whatever the binding, it didn’t change the fact that “Q. Coldwater” was written on the “Belongs To” line, in his own handwriting.

The crown of Fillory’s High King was one thing. A notebook written by the real Quentin? Something entirely different. His fingers dug into the front and back cover, squeezing them like that was the only thing keeping the words inside from springing out. This wasn’t fair. This was cruel. Even if this writing was just a piece of him, just a peek at _part_ of the picture...and even if this wouldn’t _nearly_ begin to tell him everything he wanted to know...that’s also exactly what it was: a piece, a peek, at who he used to be. A section of the answer, like an integer he could use to solve for ‘x,’ which might lead him to ‘y.’

He couldn’t help himself. He clutched it to his chest, looking down at Alice in apology in case he was already failing the test.

She didn’t try to warn him away. Instead, she ran over. She must have seen what was on the cover. Her head only came up to his knee, but she still wrapped her arms around that part of his leg and laid her head against him. He pried a hand away and curled it around her frame. It was as much of a hug as he could give back.

He was gonna do it. He had to. As he let go of Alice, and she stepped back, watching him with an unreadable expression, he opened the notebook. “Fillory and Further: Book Seven. Title: TBD” was written on the first page. He almost let out a laugh. There was a metaphor, for, like his whole life, in there somewhere. A prologue came next, and the narration described how he and Julia were petitioning Ember for help.

He could feel himself getting sucked in. The way the sentences flowed, the structure, the word choice, the tone, the allusions. Like when you find a diary from childhood, or the very first time you wrote your own made-up story. You don’t really remember writing the words, or even thinking the thoughts that led to writing them, but you can see your old self between the lines. He tore his eyes away. Emotion was welling up inside his chest and he was…elated. Ecstatic. Like this really was filling in some blank spaces. He remembered Eliot, leaning against the fountain, teasing him about spoilers and skipping ahead. A smile played at Quentin’s lips.

He shouldn’t.

The tips of his fingers fanned out the edges of the notebook.

This wasn’t “ahead.” Technically, it was looking back.

The writing went on and on as he flipped through. He caught snippets of chapter titles, saw names and verbs that only piqued his curiosity more. He hadn’t filled up the entire thing; the sentences stopped in the middle of a page about two-thirds of the way through:

_So I was writing this down because I didn’t know much, but I knew that I was the hero of this story. It all just felt like the exact moment that my entire life had been building up to. All of the reading and dreaming and…loneliness and…magic. All of it. And then, well, and then this story actually happened. And I started to realize the truth._

He wondered if it was a good sign or a bad one, that he hadn’t clarified what that was. Whether his “truth” was right, or wrong. It did, however, confirm what he’d hoped. This wasn’t made up. Wasn’t a whimsical attempt at writing his own fictional version. This was real. A record of the life he’d really lived.

And…he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to spend a ton of time just sitting in the corner of Plover’s writing room, analyzing his own literary intentions. With a staggering display of willpower he didn’t realize he had, he closed the notebook.

“I’ll…I’ll remember everything in this later, right?” He wasn’t sure whether he’d meant to direct that at Alice or himself, but she nodded in encouragement anyway. She glanced back into the safe at the box, and he nodded, setting his mouth into a determined line. And because he…he wasn’t…allowed to take anything, he set the notebook down among the papers. With a long sigh, he leaned over, grasped the box with both hands, and slid it out of the safe.

Something clicked, a hidden switch. And then the world shook. An earthquake of some kind, rattling the very foundation of the room. Alice flew up to his leg, and he bent over and shielded her with his body as the contents of the bookshelves started to shake and then topple down around them. Trying not to crush her, he scooped her up and pressed her to his chest. He shoved the box forward and crawled to the center of the room after it. His instincts were right. A heap of books cascaded down onto the spot where he’d been sitting.

The man still didn’t move. Nor did the eyes.

The contents of Plover’s desk weren’t spared. The lamp fell off, crashing to the ground. Next was a glass dish, full of loose change, which cracked and scattered its contents all over. A round metal ball from inside it rolled across, then down into, the puzzle in the floor. When it lodged in the center, the interlocking concentric circles, full of symbols, whirled around each other in clockwise and counterclockwise directions. The earthquake stopped just as the puzzle’s pieces did. In two halves, it split apart.

Blue, watery light shone all over the room, reflecting in mesmerizing waves on the white ceiling. A golden, glowing mist, just like the one that’d emerged from Ember when he died, rose out from the well, and twisted and whirled through the air as it glided away through the door of the study.

Alice jumped out from under his hand and into the air. Glancing back at him for a split second, Quentin could see she hadn’t expected the mist at all. She put out a hand, telling him to wait, and sped out from the room.

Then, there was no one else but Quentin Coldwater, and the six-fingered man and his eyes. The silence that settled around them was deafening. Keeping one eye trained on the man, he tiptoed around the broken glass to pick up the box. He brushed it off, tucking it under his arm.

The water-like contents inside the puzzle began to sink. Some passageway had opened beneath, and the liquid was draining slowly out of the well.

There was…something in the atmosphere. A prickling, or an inner tug, like the kind of hunger you felt after fasting for days. In the center of his brain. In the core of his heart. He couldn’t say if he’d ever sensed this before. It wasn’t even sensory. But he knew he’d been missing it, that it was a part of him he’d always had. Unable to feel it, because it hadn’t been there. Until it'd returned just now. Was this what authors meant, when they wrote there was magic in the air?

The entire landscape of this place, from the scattered books on the floor to a speck of dust in the air, was…controllable. Changeable. If he only knew how.

The blue light dimmed further, as the level of…of magic dwindled. The whorls and waves from the reflections shifted, eddying and spiraling. Then a repetitive thunking sound reached his ears. It wasn’t from any aftershocks from the earthquake. It was from inside the well. Quentin got closer, the blue light dancing across his face. He saw a bucket, tied to a slack rope attached to the side of the well, which had only emerged as the magic was swept away. As the water spiraled down the drain, the bucket kept hitting the sides of the well as it was carried along in circles.

Quentin pressed his teeth together, trying to block out the noise. It would stop eventually. _Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk_. Seriously, he just had to wait – _thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk_ – for the water to get so low that the bucket – _thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk_ – wouldn’t make the noise – _thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk_ – as the rope held it – _thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk_ – up. _Thunk, thunk, thun_ –

He sunk into a crouch, reaching out to grasp the rope. Doing this one-handed was gonna be impossible. Down went the box, and he was able to pull the rope up, until the bucket was leaning against the lip of the well.

His hands felt electrified. Residual magic, coating the handle, pressed against the skin of his palm.

The rope was tied to the tiniest hook. Too tiny. Not strong enough to support the weight of the…half-full bucket. A small portion of magic had come up with it. He’d, he’d just have to bring it up, then. Which he did. So now it sat there, in front of him. The liquid inside steadied as it came to rest on solid ground.

The electric-humming-sparkling-pleasing-glowing-thinkofallthepossibilities _feeling_ was so tangible, now that he was closer. What…was he going to do? What… _could_ he do?

_…Eliot, holding him by the shoulders, saying “You saved Fillory from being destroyed. You saved your friends, your real family, more times than we can count…”_

_…but I knew I was the hero of this story_.

_“What was your son’s name?”_

_…but I knew I was the hero of this story._

This was a missing piece. One of the cards he needed for his deck. He wasn’t himself without it.

 _…but I knew I was the hero of this story_.

Maybe he could heal his mot – Jane? And stop Reynard. Give Julia some help with the Hedges. Help Alice recharge the final task. Recall lost memories. So Eliot could finally talk with him without pain in his eyes.

He dipped his hands in the bucket, cupped them, put the magic to his mouth, and drank. Every atom of his being _shone_.

The hand of the man twitched. As his own hands fell from his face, Quentin heard the cracking of knuckles, long unused. The man flexed his fingers, then reached down to the eyes on the ground. He scooped them up, away from their grisly smile, then enclosed them like he was doing sleight-of-hand. When he revealed them again, there was a huge, incandescently blue moth crawling around instead.

Quentin froze. His heart sped up as he watched. The moth was...kinda beautiful. It didn’t fly up into the air, just crawled up the sleeve of the man’s jacket. The man rose to his feet in one fluid motion, and Quentin hastened to follow. At the last minute, he remembered to pick the box back up.

Was the being awake because he sensed Quentin had magic now? Had he been waiting for him to have it back, so he could talk to him? The moth kept crawling. The man wasn’t speaking, although his eyes were darting back and forth behind his eyelids. And still it crawled, up along his forearm, across his shoulder. Maybe it was some kind of familiar or…um…it…it was…it was on the man’s neck.

Quentin swallowed reflexively.

It was on the underside of his jaw. On his chin. On his lower lip.

Parting his lips and _fucking crawling inside his mouth_.

Quentin stumbled away as the man opened his eyes, the hue of the moth’s exoskeleton shining out of his eyes.

“ **Quentin. Is it time for this already?** ” the man asked. His voice was smooth, refined. It had an eerie echo.

“Uh. Um.”

What was he supposed to do, to say? Was he supposed to be afraid? Relieved? To know what the fuck “time for this” fucking meant?

The man cocked his head. “ **Well, you made it a good long way this time around.** ” He stepped closer, walking around the still draining well, and Quentin retreated on instinct. He lost his balance on an open book, and the box fell out of his hands.

“ **But this is it, Quentin.** ”

Made it a good long way _this time_? He’d done this before? Hold on. “This is it” meant an end. His eyes flickered down, distracted by the box. When it crashed to the ground, an opalescent dagger had skittered out. A weapon. He was in for a fight?

“What, what do you mean?” he asked. “What did I do? Did I do something wrong?”

“ **You mediocre are always so sentimental**.” The man raised his arms, the fingers on his hands making rapid jerks and twists, not unlike the way Alice cast her spells. “ **Although, must say, most wouldn’t walk to certain death forty times in a row!** ” And he chuckled in delight. But his jaw. As it closed, it closed…loosely. Too loose. The skin of his cheeks stretched down, impossibly long, the muscles extending beyond their limits. The man was a python, ready to swallow his next meal.

Quentin lunged for the dagger. The man regarded him with cold, almost amused interest as he awkwardly pointed it forward, grasping the hilt with both hands.

He had magic. But there wasn’t time to try and cast. Not when he didn’t know how. He had a knife, but no idea how to use it properly. If he tried either of those options, he was dead. Quentin turned on his heel, and ran. The monster’s terrible hands latched onto his upper arms with lightning reflexes, squeezing the breath from him, nearly cracking his ribs. There was a terrifying, dragging **_pressure_** at the top of his right shoulder and along his shoulder blade. His eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to shout for help, to beg for mercy, but he couldn’t get any air. Hot, reeking breath spilled over his neck. The **_pressure_** was bruising, gouging. The man was going to bite clean through–

Alice flew through the doorway, a fury in her eyes. A jet of white magic lanced from her palms. Quentin thought she was aiming at him, but the magic hit the monster right between the eyes. His teeth released, and Quentin dropped to the ground. He cried out on impact, the edge of the knife pricking through his shirt. Alice shot another missile over his head, but he didn’t dare look back to see if it landed. He scrambled out through the door, and heard Alice follow right behind him.

A ball of fire slammed into a boulder on his left. Alice had cast some kind of shield, just enough to deflect the blast. Quentin zeroed in on the stairs suspended in the air across the clearing, praying, trusting Alice with every second his heart kept beating.

He made it through the portal, up the stairs, and raced toward the woods. The monster’s spellcraft grew more vicious, more devastating. A tree nearly flattened him, toppled by a shockwave that sent his ears ringing. Alice somehow transformed it into a cascade of water at the last second, but a blast of power knocked her back as she almost failed to protect herself. Graves exploded around him, like mines buried in the earth. Jets of light, thunders of energy, and all he could do was run, duck, dodge between the trees.

Quentin was useless. He was worse than useless. He was a liability. She wouldn’t be able to protect him and fight back forever. But what could he possibly do?

Maybe Eliot could do something. Quentin just had to get back to him, without getting Alice killed.

He pushed the soaking locks of his hair out of his eyes. Where the fuck was their tree? Remembering only that it had two faces was no help; he could say the same of half of the trees here. Splinters flew in his face as another tree close by fell before the onslaught of magic around him. Fires erupted all over. The ground shook, pitching Quentin forward. An icy ray sailed over his head, spreading over the surface of a tomb. The following blast from another spell shattered it, down to its atoms. He crawled behind a tree, staying low. He heard a high-pitched shriek, like one of Alice’s, and then all of the leaves in the entire forest were swept toward the noise, pulled towards the sound as if vacuumed there, or dragged along on strings.

Come on. There had to be a landmark, a sign he remembered. The post, with the hearts! But he couldn’t tell what was a grave marker, and what was debris, through the rising smoke.

Something exploded through the branches overhead, embedding itself in a tree nearby like a bullet. It was a leaf, only it’d been transformed into a diamond facsimile, sharp and lethal. Either Alice, or the monster, was using them as projectiles. Dozens more sliced through the air in all directions…but some bounced off of one particular tree, like…like it was protected.

His suspicions were confirmed when lighting forked through the air, and the tree repelled every branching arc of it. On all fours, he crawled across the forest, zig-zagging from one trunk to another, until he found the crevice, still shining with the light of Plover’s hallway. It’d unnerved him before. It was a beacon of hope now.

“Alice!” he shouted. “Here! Through here!”

A spidery web, another shield, saved him from being hit by a splash of green, foaming liquid, which turned out to be acid as it ate through the soil at his feet. Alice was racing towards him, diving through the air and shooting off spells to keep their enemy occupied. Quentin ducked through the roots, squeezing through into the impossible calm of the old Victorian house. He took in gulps of air, catching his breath, waiting for the small shadow of Alice to follow.

When she did, he shut the door behind her. It was a flimsy attempt, but it was better than nothing. They didn’t have long.

“We’re almost there,” he gasped. He held up the dagger. “Can you use this? Do you need it?”

Breathing hard, she shook her head and used both hands to urge him down the hallway. He didn’t argue, heading for the still-open door to Whitespire’s throne room. His wet clothes stuck to his body, making him shiver.

He whipped back around as the closet door behind them was blasted off its hinges. Instead of ducking through the opening, the six-fingered man simply bent the doorframe and the walls out of his way with a flick of his extra pinky. The hall instantly felt smaller, as if the man’s very presence took up twice as much space. There was nowhere to hide, and Alice didn’t have nearly as much to work with here.

Quentin already started to back up. Alice put up another shield. But the man didn’t renew his assault. He glanced around at the decorations and out the windows.

“ **Haven’t been back here in decades** ,” he mused. Using a little push of force, he knocked one thing after the other off of the side tables without touching them. He skipped in a two-step jig every time something broke. A cat, batting toys with its paw. “ **Probably should have. The whole thing deserved a good torching.** ”

He began to whistle “The Farmer in the Dell,” snapped his fingers, and the entire expanse of carpet caught fire. Alice whipped her arms and hands into motion. Every carpet, still ablaze, shot up and wrapped themselves around the man as if to smother him. He wiped his hands down the front of his suit, and the carpets disintegrated into dust. When he snapped his fingers again, everything in the hallway became an inferno. Quentin backpedaled into the throne room, shielding his eyes as the fire burned brighter than Fillory’s golden daylight.

They just had to get to the next hallway. They were so close. His feet squeaked on the marble as he barreled across the floor of the throne room. His arms jerked up into the air, a marionette on invisible strings, and his feet left the floor kicking. Alice made a wrecked sound. He couldn’t turn to check on her. All the vertebrae in his spine was out of his control. Another shockwave sailed over his head, and the archway collapsed into a pile of rubble.

“ **Something’s different about your mind, Quentin** ,” the man noted in soft surprise.

Everything inside him felt frozen. Thoughts were nothing in the face of the terror griping his heart. The force controlling his body rotated him in a half circle, and he faced the man and his shining blue eyes once again. The monster ran his hand along his chin in thought, massaging through the little hairs. “ **You don’t even know who I am, do you? Alice’s small scratches in the dirt too vague for you, hm? And…** ” He squinted as he found more answers, and grinned, flashing all of his teeth. “ **You don’t know much about yourself either. How lovely**.”

“Listen,” Quentin tried, but another wrist flick stilled his vocal cords. The man turned, skipping over to the single standing throne. He plucked the crown from the cushion, twirling it like a frisbee.

“ **Fillory _is_ quite the sanctuary. Not safe, never that. But certainly, infinitely superior to other homes I’ve had. I’m sure you can relate.**”

The bad guy monologuing was usually a good sign. Quentin had a shred of luck left. Or Alice did. She might be able to slip by, get Eliot, make it two against one. He couldn’t see her. Invisibility, maybe. She did know how to bend light.

“ **Since you haven’t been able to put the context clues together, allow me.** ” He placed the crown on his head. “ **Hmmm. How to make this as politically correct yet sickening as possible.** ”

The lightbulb went off in Quentin's head as the crown settled on the man’s temples. He finally saw the only common thread.

Martin Chatwin smirked. “ **Finally got there. Gold star. You have learned this lesson before. I’m the cautionary tale. This could be you. Better stay home and do card tricks in your bedroom instead. But nowhere, not in any of your little academic articles and biographies or Plover’s bastardized stories, do they mention one particular detail.** ” He pinched a pinky and a middle finger. The stones on the crown got pried off the band. One by one, he sent them flying over the edge of the balcony. “ **Plover used to fondle me, whenever he could get me alone. Honestly, why else would I crawl into a grandfather clock in the first book? I was looking for somewhere to hide. That makes it all rather justified, wouldn't you say?** ”

Quentin’s mouth went numb. His brain shorted out. Out from of the fire in Plover’s hallway, he heard the cries of the young boy again. “Please, Ember, Umber! Please!” Quentin couldn’t’ve moved, even if he wanted to. He was going to be sick. A harsh ringing filled his ears.

A prismatic show of miniature fireworks popped up in front of Martin’s eyes. And then Alice followed it up with a revolving, kaleidoscopic, mandala-like, bomb of a spell that sang and hummed as it shredded through the air. Martin dived out of the way, his concentration broken, the throne blasted into ashes, and Quentin dropped to the ground.

The stone rubble of the archway parted, making a path for him. He went for it, dashing down the hallway, and Alice was seconds behind. Any moment now, he’d see Eliot peering through the clock.

But he saw nothing. Nothing but a flat stone wall at the end of the line.

“No!” He nearly slammed into it. He ran his hands across the top, the middle, the bottom. Not a seam. Not a crack. No sign of him.

“ **Quentin Coldwater!** ”

The hallway cascaded with the voice. It filled his head. What was he supposed to do, stab the wall with the fucking dagger?!

Martin had them cornered. Alice was exhausted, but she managed to dip into some well of strength deep inside. A barrier spread in her hands, stretching from floor to ceiling. Off of her back, she shrugged the pouch with the last key, and tossed it at him. He must have dropped it; she’d been carrying it like a backpack. Martin shot a blaze of white-hot energy at the barrier. Like sunlight refracted through a magnifying glass. And they were the ants, about to get burned off the face of the earth. Alice held both hands up high, feeding every ounce of her will to keep the spell up.

Quentin grabbed the final key, managing to work it out with one hand still closed on the dagger. The light grew brighter, hotter, as Martin bore down on Alice’s magic. The keyhole manifested, and when he stuck the key inside, a fold in the stone began tracing along the wall. Slowly. Too slow. Their protection held, but flickered towards the top. Rays of the searing heat slipped through for a split second above their heads, charring a splotch, burning the stone itself.

He caught Alice’s eye, begging her to hold on. She bit her lip. Blinked at him. Her eyes grew sad. And she cast another shield, walling them off from each other.

“Alice?”

The new shield rose between them. The stone door opened. She held up one hand, keeping Martin's barrier steady, and pushing the other towards Quentin, like a plunger in a needle. He was forced to take a step back.

“Alice, no!”

“Q?” Eliot. His voice came through the half open door.

“Alice, Eliot can – ” he shouted.

She kept pushing the shield towards him, letting the one between her and Martin falter. More shafts of searing energy slipped through, making Quentin shield his eyes. With a final push, she forced him backward through the stone door. With a tug of magic, she pulled the door closed behind her, dropping the shield between her and Martin. The last he saw of her was a blue flame igniting on her fingers. And then the door shut.

Eliot was at his back, catching him as he fell. Quentin scrambled forward, out of his grip, pressing his hands against the wall right next to the clock. There was no sign of the door. It had re-sealed itself.

“Q, what happened?”

He. He had to. He had to get back in there. Alice. She needed help. She needed someone. She was all alone. She was going to d…to d…she was. She was.

He let out a sob. Tore at the wall with his fingers, the dagger scraping the wall every time he moved his hands.

“What happened?” Eliot begged behind him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “What’s Alice –”

“She. I. Martin. She’s. We have to help her!” he cried.

Eliot’s hands came into view. He sidled up beside him, casting a spell, but nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Another gesture. Nothing.

Alice’d been the one with the magic, Quentin suddenly remembered. Eliot was powerless now too. He sat back on his heels, putting his hands to his eyes. He let out gasping breaths, the adrenaline still running rampant in his blood.

“Q. What happened?” Eliot turned to him. His eyes darted all over his face.

“The creature. The one the Binder said was in there. Came after me. Alice, she, she. She fought him off. But she. She tried everything. And she had to protect me and fight him and. And. I couldn’t do anything. I just ran.”

He caved in on himself. Hunched over as his chest felt like it was cracking open. Eliot’s arms wrapped around him in an instant, running a hand in circles on his back. Warm. Solid. Here. Safe. Quentin hated himself for how much it helped.

He took deeper breaths. Felt steadied. Managed to continue. “She led me through the whole way, and I got this knife and I got magic back and I couldn’t–”

Eliot’s hand slowed. Stopped. And his body tensed. “You…got magic back?”

Quentin tried not to read into that. And failed. So he explained. Confessed. “There was a well. In the floor. We were in Plover’s writing room, and the well opened, and…and I. I drank some.”

He felt Eliot stop breathing.

Quentin dropped the dagger, and it clattered to the floor as he clutched at Eliot’s white thermal shirt with both hands. Tears flooded down his cheeks. “This, this journal was in there. My past. When Julia and I went to Ember – ”

Eliot murmured, “The Binder said – ”

“All this’s supposed to make me me again and I thought of how I’d be able to help and what I could do and – ”

“The Binder said you couldn’t take anything.” Eliot’s tone was all over the place. Quentin couldn’t tell how much of it was fear, or scolding, or a…premature apology. Like. Like he’d ruined  _everything_.

“Alice isn’t, she can’t be – ” He pressed closer, unintentionally digging his fingers into Eliot’s arms. “I didn’t mean for this to...She’s gonna make it out, right?”

Now it was hard to tell who was holding up who. Eliot hugged him closer. “I don’t know.”

“Can you show me? How to cast? So we can save– ”

“I don’t know.” Eliot turned his face away. His breathing was stilted, and his arms started to shake. “You. You weren’t supposed to… _We’re_ supposed to be saving you. You shouldn’t’ve thought. You shouldn’t’ve felt like. Like you needed to be the hero.”

“Is.” Quentin couldn’t. Couldn’t see his face. He had to see. “Eliot.” He straightened up. Tried to look Eliot in the eye. Needed an answer. This was going to make him sound like the worse goddamn fucking selfish piece of trash after Alice’s sacrifice. But. “Is the third task - can I still -”

Eliot’s face crumpled. Just like when he’d said the wrong thing, about his son, that first night. “I don’t know.”

“But – ”

Eliot pulled away. He was looking around at everything. Everywhere else but him. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged the strands at their roots. “I don’t know. I. I have. A. A hun – No. Alice was the one who. And without her, I – ” He patted around the pockets of his pants. He pulled out a tiny pipe, staring at it, biting his lips until the skin turned white. “I have to. Go. See if there’s some other way, or…”

Nevermind Martin Chatwin. Nevermind Ember, or Reynard. Nevermind not ever getting himself back. This was more terrifying than anything else. “Eliot, no. Please.”

“I have to go,” Eliot repeated. He still wasn’t looking at him. He forced the air out of his lungs, his eyes landing on the clock. Then he gave it a second look. He went towards it.

Like a pathetic animal, Quentin practically crawled after him. Eliot opened the glass panel at the front. From within its bowels, he unhooked, and then extricated, a silver pocket watch on a matching chain, which had been hanging where the pendulum should've been.

“Eliot,” Quentin said again. That was the only word he knew. The only way he might get his attention back.

It at least seemed to shake him out of his reverie. His eyes refocused, and as he looked back down at Q, he tucked the watch into his pocket, nestling it next to its brother and clipping the matching chain onto his belt loop. He knelt back down, and put his hands back on him. Clasped his hand around his neck. “If, if I don’t go, then. Then we won’t know. If she made it out. Or if there’s another way. Okay?”

Quentin’s tears had stopped earlier, but they flowed freely again, even as he nodded.

“The moon’s full in three days. If I’m not back by then, then.” Eliot blinked, shook his head, then forged ahead. “Fuck it. I’ll still be back by then,” he insisted. “Like fuck am I just gonna give up an’ leave you down here alone forever. I’ll damn my fucking soul, and stay down here with you. You got that?”

Quentin despised himself enough to shake his head. Because he wasn’t worth that. Eliot had a whole life to live. Quentin had been the one to ruin things. Quentin had fucked himself over. Eliot should leave him behind, right now. And never look back. But Quentin was also just fucking selfish enough…to nod and accept Eliot’s reassurances too.

Eliot nuzzled his head up alongside Quentin's. He breathed. Pressed a kiss to the skin of Quentin’s neck, and then to his cheek, making him shiver.

He put the pipe to his mouth, crushed the tip, and inhaled. A billowing cloud of white smoke blew out of Eliot’s lips as he directed the air over his head. As the smoke settled over them, Eliot’s body faded away. And Quentin fell forward into the empty air where Eliot had once been kneeling.


	18. The Time Limit Looms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back to a shorter-length chapter with this one. There was more I thought about including, but it felt more complete like this. BTW, the mentally unhealthy thoughts return in this one, including repression and a mention of Q's suicidal ideation. Check in with yourself if you need to. Thank you to everyone who comments, who gives kudos, and who reads. I love each of you.

Exhaustion always skewed his ability to decide anything, just as much as self-doubt did. The floor felt like…the most important place to be, for the rest of the night. So that’s where he stayed. He maintained contact with the spot where Eliot had vanished, like it might make a difference. Like it was a link he could use, to find his way back. Like it was a connection Quentin could use, to keep himself from falling apart.

Eventually he relaxed his muscles a bit. Enough to keep himself awake. As more time passed, it got harder to keep himself upright. All the running, the fear, the self-loathing. It’d drained nearly every ounce of his energy. But any thoughts of going over to his bed felt greedy. He wasn’t allowed to do anything but stay here.

After another hour, his brain relented at least to lying down. He curled up on his side around that precious spot, his head propped up on an outstretched arm. The other hand rested on the boards beneath him. It wasn’t like Eliot was 'just on the other side' or anything. But still. It helped.

He had no idea how long it’d be, until he saw Eliot again. He’d promised to be back within three days. That could mean Quentin might see him in the next hour, or two, or tomorrow, or at the very last second. It could take every moment of spare time Eliot had, to clean up Quentin’s mess, to find out whether Alice had survived. To decide that, maybe, Quentin wasn’t worth coming back for after all. It was all possible.

Then Quentin was closing his eyes. Blinking them open. Closing them again, for much longer. Opening them again. He tried to expand his senses, to take stock. Keep himself awake.

The rest of the lodge felt hollow. Empty. He was dimly aware there _were_ other people, who might come in and check on him at any moment. He doubted it, but there was a chance. He tried to come up with excuses they might buy, if they saw him like this. Sleepwalking. Muscle cramp.

Seconds were minutes; were hours. His mouth was dry. He couldn’t tell if it was getting lighter outside, or if the darkness was permanent and dawn would never come.

Until the lodge creaked and groaned, and he woke to the light haze of the morning sun, from a skylight he hadn’t known was in the roof. He’d passed out on the floor.

Eliot hadn’t come back, of course.

All signs of the second task had vanished. His clothes were dry, as was his hair. Checking his shoulder for bruises, he discovered there wasn’t a mark on him from Martin’s teeth. The ram-headed clock was completely silent. If he wanted to be completely unhinged, or immature, about it, he knew he could, theoretically, try convincing himself last night was a dream. It’d be easy.

That idea had terrified him not too long ago. Now, it almost seemed like a comfort.

The opal dagger, which rested a few feet away from his head, as he craned his sore neck to look at it, was the conflicting proof. Like the Binder – both during that first night, and now this morning too – it’d stayed exactly where he’d left it.

He moved his right arm, and his head tilted up along with it. The handle was lukewarm to the touch, as if he’d only dropped it a second ago. His fingers traced over the hilt to flat side of the blade. Strangely, he was still hopeful enough – or, more likely, much too numb – to try anything with it. To turn the edge on himself, on the skin of his thumb or across his palm. The thought did cross his mind, from a distance, but in the end, it seemed like too much effort. And as low and deadened as he felt, he didn’t have it in him to “leave” all this either, to use it for a more fatal purpose like his moth – like Jane, still feared he inevitably would.

 _What progress I’ve made since then_ , he thought.

His muscles ached as he slid up off of the floor, transferring the knife from one hand to the other. He didn’t want to know what it was for. Didn’t want to guess why it was so important, why he’d had to go through all that to get it. It might be useless now. Or the only sign that there was still a chance everything’d be okay in the end.

Time to hide it, then. Until it had a purpose.

He stood. A brown-grey hum filled his head. He saw things, heard things, smelled things, felt the protestations of every part of his body as he moved. It's just, it was all very far away. One step in front of the other, one chore at a time. Like after Ember. He couldn’t…wouldn’t think beyond the next thing to do. Otherwise he’d be useless.

The pillow. Well, no, they might change his bedding. Plus, he had to figure out what to do with all his – Oh. All his clothes had been folded. Pants, shirts, socks. Everything was in a neat stack, instead of the pile he left, when he’d dumped it all out of his suitcase. And Julia wouldn’t’ve come in, or anyone else. So that meant. It’d been Eliot. Trying to occupy himself while he’d been waiting. Or just…doing something…nice.

Quentin’s chest burned, and his eyes were hot and prickling. He gasped. And he pressed everything, all of his searing self-loathing and dread and grief for the potential he’d wasted and his lov–

Stop. No.

He pressed it all DOWN. Compacted every emotion screaming to get out of him. Into a spot in the very bottom of his chest. Where it needed to stay.

Numbness. Get back to numbness.

His head cleared. Everything was distant. No one thing was more important than any other. One job at a time. Figure out what to do with the dagger.

If the pillow was out as a hiding place, then…the suitcase? No, wait, wait, that thing, the tan… tantalize..tanta-something. Tantarese. It might still be inside.

His mo – Jane. Jane was still sick, lying in bed downstairs, weak from blood loss.

Last night he’d insisted, no matter what he remembered, that helping people was part of his identity. An inextricable part. Well. Whether his recent choices had doomed his future or not, he wouldn't allow himself to abandon Jane now.

Okay. Sure. That’d keep him centered.

He decided to hide the knife beneath a loose floorboard, prying it up without too much noise. Shucking off the pillow’s case, he wrapped it up, settled it into the nook, and nestled the board back into place. At this angle, he was able to shuffle over and drag out the suitcase from under his bed.

There was another shape down there, among the cobwebs and clumps of dust. _The World in the Walls._ It’d fallen between the gap of the mattress and the baseboard. Maybe he’d knocked it down, when he’d dragged himself out of bed. Or maybe Eliot had been doing some reading.

It was too easy to picture: Eliot, on the bed, bent almost in half over the pages, perhaps shining some magic light to see the illustrations in the dark. He wondered at what point Eliot would tuck his long fingers behind an upcoming page, preparing to turn it. If he worked them between the pages right when a new one began. Or midway down. Or on the very last sentence. He wondered how fast Eliot read ( _medium speed, sometimes rereading a part he skipped over to get to the dialogue_ ). If a lock of hair fell in his eyes – ( _the long silky black curl was getting greyer every day)_ – would he be so absorbed that he wouldn’t bother tucking the strand away? Did he contort into different, awkward positions, the longer he kept at it? Maybe he needed glasses – ( _large, round lenses, and brass frames_ ). Maybe he mouthed the words as he read them. And his face would twitch with micro-expressions, whenever he was surprised, or anxious, or when he found something funny, or infuriating. And what words would it take, to make Eliot cry, his tears blotting the inked font as he refused to drag his eyes away? ( _A letter, not a book. A letter had made him cry like that, written by –_ )

…The fuck was wrong with him. Why would wondering how Eliot looked when he _cried_ cross his mind? Why did he picture that so _clearly_? If he had seen the image before, if it was a memory and he just had no context for it…was his brain, like, absently filling in gaps, like a goddamn guessing game?!

As if seeing Eliot hunched over in the labyrinth, after he realized Quentin had no memory…

As if Eliot clutching him into a hug and his voice breaking…

As if all that wasn’t enough of a picture for him.

He staggered back to his feet, reflexively tucking the book under one arm and clutching the suitcase in his hand. No. None of that was a memory, the dark part of his brain insisted. His memory couldn’t be coming back. He hadn’t earned that. He wasn’t _allowed_ to get his hopes up like that anymore.

Jane. Think of Jane.

To get to her, he needed to go to the attic door. So he did. Then he walked himself through clambering down the steps. Progressing through the hallway. Checking for signs of other people, and opening the door to his moth – to Jane’s bedroom.

The room was cold, the air stale and a little fetid. Like the blood hadn’t quite been washed away, even though the sheets and floor were spotless. Jane was sweating all over, her eyes darting back and forth beneath her lids. Her orange curls were plastered to her forehead, and scattered around the mountain of pillows propping her up. The blankets were half pushed off, nested around her swollen, pregnant stomach. Her night gown gave her some decency, at least. She moaned in her sleep, her pain following her into her dreams.

His old bed in the corner was stripped of all bedding, as if he’d never been here. Quentin set down his suitcase, his arm pressing _The World in the Walls_ to his ribs. He should go over to her. Smooth her hair from her face. Trace a cool cloth over her brow.

He’d wanted to escape all this so badly before. His failure in the labyrinth, of not reading the signs right, and Eliot crushing him into that hug. That’d been the catalyst. He’d finally been so _done_ with himself, with his memory loss and stupid high hopes. And this false war. Reynard’s terror. Julia’s secrets. Even Jane. And maybe, because of him, she’d suffered for it. He’d rushed right into the bathroom, not giving her a second’s glance. Dismissing her, as just another part of the scenery shackling him here. And then he'd had to watch from the corner of the room, helpless, as Doctor Fogg just barely managed to save her.

Every time he tried to find his old self, to get back to being the person he used to be, he ruined everything. He and Eliot had patched things up, sure – until Quentin’d wrecked things again. He got magic back. Tried to be the hero. And this was the continued cost. Jane. Alice. Eliot. He’d basically lost them all.

Eliot’s kiss, on the slope of Quentin’s neck, flared like a burn. The press of his soft lips, the _ache_ of parting from him _again_ as he disintegrated into smoke –

( _…so we fix what we can_.)

The voice, maybe another memory, sounded exactly like Doctor Fogg’s. Quentin was sure he’d never heard him say that.

( _…so we fix what we can_.)

He turned the phrase over and over inside his head. The words were soft. Determined. Advisory. Fractured impressions like this…they kept happening after the tasks, didn’t they…

That time he’d taken himself in hand, in the bathtub. The flash of sensation in front of the shack in the second task. Eliot reading.

( _…so we fix what we can_.)

Okay.

If Quentin’d broken himself, possibly even beyond repair at this point, at least his pieces could mend a few others.

It was time to crack open the suitcase. It’d stayed dormant all this time. Whatever Alice and Eliot had summoned – this thing that fed on dreams – it hadn’t made a sound since it’d got here. He popped open the locks and raised the lid. Inside was a…toy. Or a model maybe, of a wooden spider. Impossibly tiny screws connected each joint, from the pincers to the spinneret. Its limbs and body weren’t hand-carved. They were too meticulous for that. But Quentin couldn’t think of anything that’d be able to sand something down to the grain so finely. His father might’ve known, if he was still here.

Except, obviously, that the spider was not man-made - hello, it was a _magic object,_ dumbass - and Quentin really needed to keep the fact that _magic. was. real,_ like, _embedded_ in his brain better. Like he kept forgetting that, for some reason.

Back on that first night, when Alice had revealed her fairy shape to him…The joy at seeing magic with his own eyes…That awe, at the _potential_ of the world he’d dug up from inside himself…It’d felt the same way in the writing room, with his journal, with the…the water ( _Wellspring_ ) bleeding magic into the air.

But that part of him had gone back into hiding now, he realized. The wonder wasn’t gone, not exactly, but he’d had to wrap it back up again, shield it again, instinctively. Because…he wouldn’t survive the next time he let himself get that vulnerable, would he?

Magic was real. He literally had it in him now. And there was no way to tell how long it would stay. Whether he’d even be able to do anything with it, before it faded. He shuddered as Alice’s fight with Martin Chatwin lanced through his memory again. Quentin hadn’t had a drink in ages, but he was tempted to crawl inside several bottles of wine, and not come out for a long time.

Martin’s words, about Plover…The devastation and nausea hit him all over again. How he had worshipped him, that _fucking sick, twisted_ monster. A man who’d ruined Martin’s childhood. Who may well have been the cause of Fillory's misery. Who stole the Chatwin’s stories for himself. Quentin had thought each of the Fillory books were meant for people just like himself. To pull them out of the darkness. A safe haven they could come back to anytime, like a dream waiting for him in the night. But they were just –

A dream.

Ha.

He’d feed the spider a dream, alright. All of his dreams, from going to Fillory one day as a boy, just like Martin, to that lunatic fantasy of seeing Whitespire again, with all of the people he’d now disappointed. It could have them all.

He opened _The World in the Walls_ , snagged the first three pages, and tore them from the spine. The rational part of his brain thought he should have hesitated, should be more uncertain about it, should feel like this was some sort of sacrifice. Should regret it.

It just felt good.

( _Like throwing model planes at the wall with the -_ )

He held the papers in front of the spider. The front two pedipalps twitched outward, clicking like they were wound by internal gears. They touched the margins, brought them closer, and the spider's jaws opened. Like a lightning strike, it sank its fangs into the pages.

Jane stirred on the bed. She rubbed the side of her face into one of the pillows, like a child herself, as if seeking comfort from family sleeping nearby. As he watched, the flush left her cheeks, and her breathing eased. A ghost of a smile buzzed on Quentin’s face. He ripped more pages out, settling them around the spider along the bottom of the suitcase. It’d have plenty to feed on during the day. Hell, he’d leave the whole book in there, if that’s what it wanted.

Voices crept through the hallway outside. Quentin jerked his head up. Whoever it was, they couldn’t discover the Tantarese. They wouldn’t understand.

He snapped the lid shut, whirling left and right for some place inconspicuous. The voices drew closer, two men, although he couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was nothing else for it. Quentin shoved the case underneath the foot of Jane’s bed, and ran for the double doors of the bathroom. No sooner had he slid them shut than the two men entered the bedroom.

“Alright, let’s see,” he heard Doctor Fogg say.

There was a slight rustling, like he was moving something along the bed. Quentin held his breath, afraid that the echo off of the tiles, no matter how faint, might give him away. He held the handles of the door shut, and didn’t move, in case they saw his shadow change. There wasn’t really any reason to hide, he knew, if it was just Fogg in the room. But something kept him from revealing himself. A minute passed, and when he finally dared to let the air out of his lungs, Fogg spoke again.

“I…Well. Good news, captain. Her pulse is very steady. And her fever’s lower than it was last night.”

“But it’s not gone?” Reynard asked.

Quentin swallowed. Scratch that. He had plenty good reason to stay right where he was. The fever going down was excellent news. The spider was working its magic already. But Reynard wasn’t satisfied with that.

“No,” Fogg admitted, “but the fever is more reassuring than you might think. It means her body’s fighting off infection. After last night, I didn’t expect her to be improving this quickly.”

Reynard didn’t say anything for a moment. Even without the tell-tale footsteps, Quentin nearly suspected the Fox’d left the room. Until he heard the captain murmur something to the doctor.

“If there comes a time. If you have to choose…save my son.”

A stab of shock hit Quentin through the heart.

Reynard took a step, his boot thunking on the floor as he drew closer to Fogg. “The boy’s going to bear my name, understand?”

It was just as he thought, days ago in the car, when they were on their way to the lodge. Reynard wanted one thing, and one thing only.

Before Fogg could answer, there was an explosion in the distance. Both men scrambled to the right side of the room, and there was a tiny rattle as one of them threw the window open. They then ran from the room together. The moment he thought it safe, Quentin slid the doors apart and crossed to the window too. A boiling black cloud of smoke was blooming up into the air dozens of miles away. As he watched, a second mushroom of fire joined it, right alongside a thundering boom that he could feel in his eardrums.

Either the Hedges were making a move, or there’d been a terrible accident.

Below the window, a crowd of soldiers were gawking at the sight, just as he was. Orders from Reynard, who was now marching out onto the lawn, jolted them into action. They all scrambled to their posts, some running to the barracks for their gear, others to the stables to ready a platoon of cavalry. Horses began to rear and scream as still more blasts echoed. Soon, a large force of men mounted up, following Reynard’s horse as he charged into the woods. The remaining soldiers manned their stations besides gun turrets and sandbags.

Quentin tore himself away from the window, crossing back over to Jane. She still slept, undisturbed by all the commotion. It wouldn’t do any good to wake her.

Honestly, he didn’t even know what he’d say to her, if he did. He didn’t think he could keep up the pretense of being the Quentin she once knew.

A small bump, either the baby’s heel or fist, rose from Jane’s round stomach. Quentin impulsively put his hand out to feel it. The bump stayed there for a moment, and then there was another jolt as the baby kicked again. Jane sniffed, but didn’t wake.

What would happen to this kid? When Jane gave birth, any day now, what kind of world was the baby going to be suddenly thrust into? Would it know war, hearing lullabies in gunshots? Would it know cruelty, on display much more often than love these days? Would it grow up even knowing Jane? Or would it be dragged away from its mother, to grow up as Reynard’s legacy?

If Eliot did find another way to get him out, Quentin would end up leaving this little family. But…he wasn’t sure he could. He still had the memories of growing up in the city, of his father and Jane raising him, of all they had struggled to do to keep each other alive. He was tied here, by Jan - his…his mother. By his younger sibling.

And yet, Eliot’s question, about his son’s name…

Quentin had a child too, didn’t he?

( _falling asleep with a little body beside him, his nose buried in the child’s sandy brown hair, on the bed outside, even though it was midday and he still had another pattern to put together, but he was just so worn out, so tired, and the light pressure of a blanket – their quilt – was being draped over him by – )_

Quentin blinked his eyes open. The baby’s heel had retreated, leaving Quentin with his hand still covering the curve of blankets.

He leaned in close. He didn’t quite know what to say. But he wanted, _needed_ , to say something.

“Hey, little one,” he said. He kept his voice low and soothing. Like those night’s when he’d told them stories. “We’re here for you, okay? You’ll get to see us soon. Mom’s…she’s been pretty sick. But she’s getting better, I think. I hope.”

He tilted his head to look at Jane’s calm expression. He remembered loving her. Wanting to do anything to make her happy. Wanting to not be a burden on her anymore.

“I know none of this’s been easy on you two. You gotta be strong, just like her. Just, just _wait_ ‘til you meet her, little one. She’s a good mom. When she wants something, she doesn’t give up until she gets it. Especially if that ‘something’...is to keep you safe.”

He shuddered, his thoughts spinning out of control. She’d agreed to be Reynard’s wife to keep him safe, she’d said. Shouldn’t he return the favor?

“And, maybe, I’ll…I’ll get to take you guys away from here in a few days. How’s that sound, huh?” He gave a choked half-laugh, his voice breaking as tears leaked onto the back of his hand. “In a few days, we might get to go to Fillory, and…and…I’ll show you around. I’m kinda…a king there, apparently. So I might even be able to make you, like, a princess or something. Or a prince, if that’s who you are, or whichever royal title you’d like. How ‘bout that, huh? You wanna be a princess?”

A sob flew out between his clenched teeth. Any louder, and he’d wake Jane. He bit back his hysterics, but he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving the room to let them out. There was no where else he could go anyway.

He went around to the other side of the bed and sat down at the foot of it. A strong wind above the tree line bore some of the black smoke across the canopy. Rainclouds hovered in the sky in the distance. The wind’d probably blow them right over their heads later today.

The labyrinth was in another part of the forest, he knew, as he dried his eyes on his sleeve. The thought gave him a bit of comfort. Whoever won the battle, or any battles to come, he’d be able to take Jane and hide there, if he had to.

Oh, and Julia, he recalled, not without a little uncertainty. She was…with Eliot. Sort of. From “up top,” whatever that meant. As long as she wasn’t with the Hedges, caught up in the middle of the fighting, then she’d be able to escape with him. He’d make sure to find her, if he could, if it came down to it.

He hoped it wouldn’t. He could feel it in the air. The day was about to get bloody.


End file.
